sea & storm
by onceuponamirror
Summary: Collection of various Hook x Emma oneshots/drabbles; mostly (but not all) ones that take place in Neverland, on the search for Henry. Varying degrees of fluff.
1. sea & storm

**on the Jolly Roger, circling Neverland, Emma reminisces to Hook about the day Henry found her.**

* * *

"Well, thank God you had the sense to pack _energy bars._ I'm _so_ glad that your _Odwalla_ _bar_ has a tracking spell."

"Regina, that's not what I'm saying, I only meant that—"

"No, Mary Margaret, you don't need to defend yourself to her. Regina—"

"I agree with Regina, dearies. Sitting idle isn't—"

"We're not sitting idle, buddy, we've been circling the damn island for a full day. If you think—"

_Bloody hell_, Hook thinks to himself, leaning into the wheel. He presses his palm into his cheek, sighing loudly. As if hearing him, Emma, at the fringes of the group, snaps her gaze up to his, her eyes lingering with a glare left over from arguing.

_Everyone is being ridiculous_, he says silently with a raise of his eyebrow.

_I know_, she agrees with a nod of her head, eyes softening.

Emma exits the deck and climbs the helm, her absence not even noted by the still squabbling group below. She tucks her hair behind her ears and leans against a taunt rigging, eying Hook carefully. "I know you've got a plan," she says finally, "I can tell. You wouldn't just have us aimlessly circling without a reason."

He digs his tongue into his cheek, straightening. "Right you are, lass. We're looking for the Picanniny's port. It's the safest place to drop anchor, if we can barter our dockage. Your mother's packed sustenance may prove useful, actually."

A small smile slips over Emma's face, which she hides by looking off over her shoulder. Composing herself, she turns back to the pirate. "Looking for it? Don't you know where it is? Weren't you here for, I dunno, centuries?"

His lips twitch. "Indeed I was, Swan, but the Picaninny's are nomadic. They pick up and move every dozen or so years. And even then, they keep their location well concealed, for there are those on the island who…they do not have a good accord with."

"Like you?" Emma tests, narrowing her eyes. "In every version I remember, you guys didn't exactly get along with each other. Something about Tiger Lily?"

Hook shoots her a sly, knowing smile. "Ah yes, Tiger Lily," he muses, his eyes glazing over. "Lovely…_lovely _lass, if you follow."

"That's not funny," Emma snaps, and she doesn't know why it bothers her. It's not exactly like Hook has painted himself as the picture of purity.

"Wasn't meant to be," he replies smoothly, smiling as his eyes flick down to her clenched fists. He inhales sharply, nearly rolling his eyes. "Worry not, Swan, as pretty as Tiger Lily was, _your_ beauty far surpasses that of any Picaninny maid."

"I—" Emma starts, her cheeks flushing wildly, "That's not—"

He holds up his hand to silence her, a wild grin threatening to break across his face. "That said, despite the spare altercation here and there, the Picaninny's and pirates have no reason to fight amongst each other, not with far more malicious forces afoot."

Emma arches her head back, narrowing her eyes. "Yeah, you keep saying stuff like that, all ominous and whatever. What do you mean?"

Hook turns his eyes out to sea, swallowing. "I mean that Neverland is not the place you seem to think it is. It's the place between wide awake and dreaming—it's purgatory, darling. It's governed by the shadows and unseen eyes." At this, he bows his head into his chest, glancing at Emma out of the corner of his eye. She's frozen, wondering if he can hear the hammering of her heart from where he stands.

He continues, pivoting towards her, "Neverland is never more deadly than when it is beautiful, because it never wants you to leave. The sea is far safer than land, and if we're to start combing the island we must have a secure place to drop anchor because we _must_ be back on board the ship by nightfall. These are mermaid and all-manner-of-beast-infested waters, but the Picanniny's know the safest bays."

"Why haven't you said any of this until now?" Emma asks after a beat, feeling breathless.

"No one has asked me," Hook replies, shrugging. "You've all been more bloody invested in squabbling amongst yourselves than learning about Neverland. I planned to tell your family once I found port."

"Hey," Emma says, surprised at how soft her voice has gone, "you're part of this too. If you've got something to say you should say it. I—we owe you a lot." His eyes scan her face, and she forces herself to look at him. "Thank you. I know it's not easy for you with…Gold on board."

"Henry is more important," Hook says finally, his voice suddenly very low.

Her heart threatens to leap out of its chest at those words, but to her credit, Emma manages to keep her face calm. But she can't help the smile that has begun blooming over her lips. "He is," she agrees quietly.

She steps up next to him and joins him at the wheel, leaning against it like he is. She turns to him over her shoulder. "It's only been a little over a year, you know. Since he found me."

Hook's eyebrows raise, but whether it's at her proximity or the fact that she's opening up, he doesn't know. He stays silent, prodding her on.

Her eyes have glazed over with reminiscence, going back to that moment. She laughs softly. "He showed up in my apartment right after I'd finished a job—I worked as a bail bonds-person, or, er, you may know the term bounty hunter—" Hook's eyebrows shoot farther up, where it possible, "—and…and it was my birthday. I was alone, but I'd bought myself this stupid little cupcake and candle. And I wished…"

She trails off, suddenly feeling self-conscious. She'd told this story before, she doesn't know why telling it to Hook is so much harder. "You wished for what, lass?" She still isn't used to the softness of his voice, a gentleness that she didn't know he was capable of.

"I wished I wouldn't have to be alone." She looks at him in that moment. The two of them stand, their backs to the deck, necks turned over their shoulders, eyes locked.

"I know the feeling," he says after a moment.

"I know you do," she agrees. "But you don't have to be. Henry found me and gave me something to fight for. We'll find something for you to fight for, too."

Hook says nothing for a few painfully silent seconds, his head bowed down in thought. Slowly he raises his head, and meets her gaze again, their eyes the color of the sea and storm.

"One can only hope."


	2. passing time

**Emma's phone dies with her only picture of Henry on it; Hook has an idea.**

* * *

He blinks and taps his hook against the wheel, watching a dark figure emerge from the crew's cabin. He frowns. He doesn't trust anyone else at the helm of _the Jolly_, which of course means he hasn't slept properly in days, having to keep his eyes on the water and the winds in the deadly night and rising before daybreak to continue circling the island.

The figure crosses the deck and deflates somewhat dramatically onto an old cargo box, blonde hair flying around her as she does so. _Bloody woman_, he thinks to himself, and after a moment's hesitation, descends the stairwell of the helm. The anchor is still dropped, so he can afford to leave the wheel for a spell.

Hunched and cradling a small black box of some sort, Emma sits with a far-away but no-less gloomy look on her face—and damn if it doesn't bother him.

"You're up early. Why so sullen, Swan?" He asks lightly, standing over her.

Her eyes snap up to his, a grimace already in place. Then, instead of replying, she shuts them tightly, as if concentrating.

"What are you doing now?" He asks after a few moments, an amused expression etched into his face.

Emma's eyes fly open, thinly disguising a surprisingly mischievous look. "I've used magic before. I'm trying to will you away. But it doesn't seem to be working."

He raises an eyebrow. "Don't hurt yourself, love," he almost laughs, taking a seat next to her. His eyes flick from the small object she's clutching back to Emma's frowning face, waiting for her to say something. When she doesn't, he prods on, "You can talk to me. What's wrong?"

She sighs heavily, as if weighing her options, whether or not she should open up. "My phone died."

He pauses. "My deepest condolences, Emma," he says softly.

She arches her neck over her shoulder, throwing him a dubious look. "Do you even know what a phone is?"

"Not the slightest. Your dog, perhaps?"

She laughs at that, and he can't help but note how much he likes the sound. He realizes he's never heard it before, but now that he has, he wants to hear it again. Emma holds up the black object she was clutching and gives it a flourishing shake. "This is a phone," she explains. "It had a picture of Henry on it. My only picture. I wasn't carrying my wallet when…when things went down."

He licks his lips, uncomfortable to see Emma so dejected. "What about the queen? Might she have a picture?"

Emma rolls her eyes. "If Regina did, do you really think she'd share it with me?"

Hook smiles tightly, conceding. "True right," he admits. Then, he abruptly stands, so quickly he almost knocks over the box he had been sitting on. Emma looks from the crate to him, raising an eyebrow.

"Wait here," he says, and turns on his heel.

"Okay…" she says slowly, watching him disappear below deck. He returns a moment later, carrying two books, some scraps of yellowed parchment, and—pencils? "No way," she says to his approaching form.

He only grins, taking his seat back next to Emma and passing her half the materials.

"Hook…" Emma trails off, staring down at the paper as if it may attack. "I'm a shitty artist. I nearly failed every art class I took."

"I'm sure you're fine," he says dismissively, his head already bowed down, beginning to sketch.

"What, you're going to do it too? Don't you have…I dunno, a boat to sail, or something?"

He puts down his pencil, glaring at her pointedly. "Swan, I've been bloody sailing my _ship—_not_ boat—_for three days straight now, without a moment's rest, while listening to the five of you bicker this way and that over nothing and bloody everything. I'm going to take a _brief_ leave to collect myself, or I may end up steering us into Skull Rock just to get you all to shut up." He blinks. "Savvy?"

Emma grunts in a reluctant agreement, and the two of them turn their heads down to the papers, pencils at work. Every once in a while, he glances over at her and stifles a smile when he feels her doing the same.

The sun breaks across the horizon, flooding the deck with yellowing light. Below, voices and movements echo up, signaling that others are beginning to wake. Feeling like his alone time with Emma has reached its end, he reaches forward and snatches the pencil from her. "Alright, let's see it, lass," he says, reaching for the drawing too.

She covers the paper up defensively, even going so far as to hold it up against her chest. Mockingly, he does the same. He raises an eyebrow, and she raises hers right back.

"It's bad," she warns.

"Nothing you do is bad, darling," he coos, to which she rolls her eyes.

"You can't laugh."

"On my honor."

Emma looks as though she wants to make a crack at that, but holds herself back. She steals one last worried glance at her paper before turning it around to face him.

He can't help himself—he barks out a sharp laugh before sealing his lips tightly together, suppressing a smile.

Affronted, Emma whips the drawing back around. "You said you wouldn't laugh!"

"You didn't tell me that Henry has three eyes," he snorts, trying to grab the drawing back.

Holding it arms' length, Emma spares it another look, cringing. "That's his nose." She then smirks, as if a thought has come to her. "Well, let's see yours."

"No, I don't think that's a good idea, love," he says slowly, in an unreadable voice. Suddenly feeling smug, Emma only swivels to face him and holds out her hand.

"Swan, you're not going to like it," he warns, to which Emma only flourishes her expectant hand. With a dramatically reluctant sigh, he passes over this drawing, his face breaking into a grin when she gasps.

"The hell, Hook," she says softly, turning it sideways. "This looks just like him." To which he only shrugs, trying to keep the indifference off his face and hide the fact that her compliment has him glowing. Emma flicks her eyes between him and the paper. "You only saw Henry for ten minutes, max."

He shrugs impassively. "Was paying attention."

"Where'd you learn to draw like this?"

Hook stiffens as if he's had ice water thrown over him, turning his eyes to the sky. He's silent for a long while. "Milah taught me. She was a brilliant artist," he says finally, in an unreadable voice, "always drawing. I used to have hundreds of her sketches tacked to our cabin, even when she told me not to."

Emma swallows, hoping it'll quell the uncomfortable knot that has just formed in her stomach. "Used to?" She asks, but she already knows the answer.

"I burned them," he admits quietly after a beat, unwilling—or unable—to meet her eyes. He stands then, stretching. Emma hands him back the drawing, but he shakes his head. "Keep it."

"No, it's yours, and you should—"

"Emma," he snaps, but his eyes are soft, "I drew it for you."

She nods, almost imperceptibly, and hugs the drawing close. "Thank you," she allows, confused. He opens his mouth to say something, but abruptly shuts it as his eyes flit over to the stairwell. Mary Margret and David have ascended from below deck, stretching and waving to Emma.

With one last glance down at her, he turns on his heel and marches back towards the helm. Her mother trots up to her, watching Hook's departing form with a distinctly curious expression. "What was that about?" She asks lightly, but carefully.

Emma waves a hand dismissively. "Nothing," she says, standing.

Mary Margret's eyes dart downwards, to the piece of paper clutched in Emma's grip. "Well, what's that?"

"Um, my phone died with my only picture of Henry on it, so…Hook drew me a new one."

Surprise overtakes her mother's face, and Emma looks away, not knowing why it makes her so uncomfortable. It's as if she's sixteen and been caught sneaking out. But when she glances back, Mary Margret is smiling softly, but in a way that makes Emma somehow _more _uncomfortable.

"Oh," she says knowingly, "that was nice of him."

Emma frowns to cover up her embarrassment. She turns her neck over her shoulder, where Hook stands at the helm, his eyes glazed over, staring out at sea. Then, as if sensing her eyes on him, his gaze flicks back to hers. Hesitantly, she smiles, which he returns with just as much trepidation.

"Yeah," Emma breathes, eyes still on Hook, "it was."


	3. perhaps

**written pre-finale; Emma has a question for Hook about why he helped her family.**

* * *

"I wanted to talk to you about something," Emma says, hesitantly taking a step up the helm of the Jolly Roger. His eyes are cast out at sea, but flick to hers as the stairs creak with her next step.

He looks as though he wants to throw out a quip, but as if thinking better of it, he nods and gestures her forward. He is noticeably tired, his shoulders caved, his weight supported by the wheel of the ship.

Emma joins him on the helm, but keeps her distance. "I was thinking about something." She looks at her hands. "When Rumplestitlskin and I…when we went to New York…you followed us. You were never trapped by the curse."

"Thank you for the reminder, love," he sighs shortly, like he's bored, but his eyes have widened slightly, waiting for her to continue.

She pauses. "You could've left any time today. You didn't need to risk your life, you didn't need to fight with David, you didn't need to…stick around." She says it like a statement, but they both know it's a question.

"Aye, I could've left. And I would've lived while Rumplestitlskin died. But," he inhales sharply, quickly glancing up to the sky before darting his gaze back to her, "I would've been alone."

He licks his lips, straining to will the words forward. "I've been alone for longer than you've been alive, Emma. Rumplestiltskin took from me my happiness, but _revenge_ has kept me from ever getting it back. I've felt vindication, when I thought I'd killed the crocodile, and it's emptier than you'd believe. It left a hole wide enough to swallow the sea. I realized that I have nothing, Emma—nothing to lose."

Emma takes a step closer, both seemingly unaware of her movement. She wants to say something, and her hands dance at her sides, but she can't find the words. He continues, "If I stayed and we lost, then at least my misery would end. If I stayed and we won…even if only some lived, well…perhaps…"

He trails off, looking down, as if ashamed of the word.

"Perhaps there's hope," Emma finishes for him, her neck arched, looking at him in a way that she wasn't quite before. He meets her gaze briefly, before turning his eyes back out to sea. For someone so old, he suddenly seems so young.

"Yes, love," he says, "perhaps there is. I felt more alive, fighting today, than I have since—" He abruptly cuts himself off, and stares down at his right wrist. Emma follows his eyes, and they both glance up into each other's at the same moment, remembering their climb up the beanstalk.

"Than I have in a while," he quickly amends, smiling softly.

Emma too is smiling, the first time in what feels like forever. Perhaps even since her welcome home dinner. He stares at her as if trying to memorize the moment, an intense and white-hot fire behind his eyes.

Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, Emma mumbles an excuse and thank you and begins descending down the stairs. He watches her go silently.

Halfway down the helm, she pauses and glances back over her shoulder, meeting his eyes. They both want to say something, but there are no words for the moment, so she slips back down to the deck, back to her parents.

The only confirmation that she was ever even there is the gentle beat in his chest, a quiet hammering he hadn't known in so long that he'd forgotten what it sounds like. But he knows it when he hears it. And so does she.


	4. games

**"I'm asking you if we need to add a flying twelve year old to our list of enemies."**

* * *

"Hook," Emma says suddenly, hands on the railing. Neverland gleams before them, luminescent greens and faintly twinkling yellow lights blinking through the mist that encapsulates the island.

He looks up from his namesake, the good hand cradling it gently. "Yes, love?" He steps forward, joining her.

"If Gold—I mean, Rumplestitlskin cut off your hand, and he's the crocodile—"

Hook inserts a sigh, indicating he'd like her to get to her point. As strange as he'd been the past few days, fighting alongside her and her family, he still doesn't seem ready to discuss anything that brushed the topic of Rumpelstiltskin.

She shoots him a look, but she can't blame him. "In the story I know, Peter Pan cut off your hand. I've heard you mention Lost Boys and crocodiles, but no Peter."

"What are you asking me?" Hook says carefully after a beat. He's thankful her eyes are still out on the island, scanning the skies.

"I'm asking you if we need to add a flying twelve year old to our list of enemies," Emma replies, throwing him a sarcastic smirk. _Our enemies_, he thinks, liking the way she refers to them as a "we". It's been so long since he's had a "we."

He laughs shortly, rolling his eyes up to the sky. "No, I daresay Peter Pan won't be harming a hair on your head, lass. Ridiculous name, though," he adds after a moment, "certainly not one fit for a pirate."

She eyes him dubiously, as if that was obvious. "Well yeah, he's a kid, not a pirate." When he doesn't say anything, she shrugs her shoulders and digs her hands into her pockets, the night air biting at her cheeks. "So can we expect him to make an appearance?" She asks, hoping her voice staved off the excitement behind the thought.

He laughs again, to which Emma frowns. Why does he keep laughing? Is he mocking her? Then again, he always mocks her. So she shouldn't be surprised. But this feels different—he won't maintain eye contact with her, tell tale sign of a liar. But she also knows he's not lying. He's just avoiding the full truth.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," he says, flashing her a grin.

She pivots towards him, narrowing her eyes. "What's so funny?"

Hook throws her a condescending smirk, but his eyebrows have knotted up slightly. "Who said it was funny? The tale is a little more gruesome than you might expect."

"No, that's what you said about the beanstalk," she shoots back, but gears have started rolling in her head.

"Indeed I did. If you recall, I also told you that whatever tale you think you know, you most certainly do not," he replies, his voice dropping an octave.

She arches her neck back, blatantly rolling her eyes at him. She'd forgotten how dramatic he is. "Right, so you're going to tell me that—the boy who would never grow up…grew up? Trust me, I read the story, and I think I'd remember that plot twist."

"I didn't say that; you did, darling."

"You didn't tell me he didn't."

"I certainly didn't not tell you." His tone has picked up again, a mischevious spark in his eyes visible even under the moonlight.

"Stop playing…" Emma trails off abruptly, eyes widening. Her voice drops to a whisper, "…games." _Oh _hell_ no_, she thinks, suddenly wracking her brain for anything on the Peter Pan story.

The corners of his lips twitch, perhaps with a secret, or perhaps with a hidden kiss. He leans in, his breath tickling her ear, hot on her skin. In a voice that could only be described as childish, he grins and whispers, "Oh, the cleverness of me."


	5. the cut

**takes place on the beanstalk; Hook and Emma had an awfully lot of time to chat then, didn't they?**

* * *

"—And then I said to the mermaid, 'love, that's not _called_ a tailfin,'" He finished, an absurdly proud smirk on his face as he glanced back down to gauge her reaction.

"Ha, ha," she called out, her voice even, barely stifling an eye roll. Emma gripped for a sturdy vine, hoisting herself up the stalk. She didn't know what was more annoying; his endless babbling of stories—which, she had to admit, were at least _kind_ of entertaining, but she wasn't about to let _him_ know that—or the smirk that accompanied them. It was as if he was under her skin, knowing she found him amusing. "Are you done yet?"

"Are you done 'concentrating' yet?" He called back, eyebrows high on his forehead. And he was mocking her, too. God. If she hadn't been focusing so intently on not looking down, she would've tried to punch him. "Or are you ready to talk to me again? It's awfully lonely so far up here."

"Yeah, well, buddy—not everyone has scaled a damn beanstalk before," she snapped, grabbing the nearest vine and pulling angrily on it. She suddenly had the strongest desire to race him to the top, if just so that he wouldn't hold bragging rights over her head. She had a feeling he might.

"Yes, and you are doing just swimmingly," he replied, not unkindly. In fact, he almost sounded proud, but she decided that was just the wind making her hear things. "You're a natural."

"Well, glad I have that for the job resume," she said, rolling her eyes. When she glanced up at him again, he was leaning back, holding onto a loose vine for support, looking down at her with the oddest expression. His eyebrows were knotted, his mouth slightly ajar, tipped upwards in the left corner; it was as if he was staring at her like she was a familiar looking ghost.

"What?" She snapped, her skin suddenly feeling hot.

He seemed to shake himself out of it. "Speaking of jobs," he said, voice jovial again, "I haven't yet told you about the time I was hired by rabbit to kidnap a girl."

She was gaining on him, fast, finally feeling her adrenaline kick in. "Really?" She almost laughed. "That's the one you're going with? You wanna impress me, you're gonna have to try harder than that, buddy."

"Who said I wanted to impress you, darling?" He smirked, letting her pass him.

Well, maybe he had a point. Maybe she had been reading him wrong. She was a few feet above him now, and she was glad he couldn't see the way her mouth had turned upside down at that. She reached up for another vine distractedly, hissing as her hand snagged on a thorn the size of her gun.

"Emma?" Hook called, his tone hesitant, but she kept moving. She wasn't going to let him see her cut, and by the time he caught up with her, the challenging smirk was firmly in place. Good. He didn't notice.

They climbed on.


	6. perhaps you are, captain swan

**Hook recalls telling Emma she'd make one hell of a pirate, and seems to still think she would.**

* * *

"Swan, would come up here for a moment?"

Her parents exchange cautious looks, but Emma waves them off dismissively. "It's fine," she insists, following his voice up to the helm of the Jolly Roger. He looks exhausted; circles under his eyes that seem more than just smudged eyeliner, his weight caving against the wheel, his hair a mess—well, actually, his hair was often a mess, but Emma could admit he didn't look himself.

"What's up, Hook?" Emma asks, in what she hopes is a nonchalant tone. Did he find something out about Henry? Does he know anything? She rocks on her heels, feeling two pairs of worried eyes on her. Emma throws her parents an annoyed glance. Caught, they shuffle around awkwardly and make themselves scarce.

"I need you to be my first mate," he sighs begrudgingly.

Emma snorts with laughter, about to compliment him on his joke, but then she realizes he's serious. "Wait—what? No, Hook, I—"

"Swan," he hisses firmly, "I have been awake for nearly thrice days time, and we're not far from Mermaid Lagoon. I _will_ bloody fall asleep at the wheel and steer us straight into their den."

Emma looks down at that, suddenly feeling shameful for not acknowledging how much he's done since leaving for Neverland, how much he's done for her, for her family, for Henry. He's kept his distance from Rumple and resolutely circled the island without complaint, quip, or even sass.

But still, as much as she's appreciated his self-inflicted dedication, she doesn't know why he's asking _her_. "Why me?"

The ghost of a smile graces his lips. "The crocodile shan't step foot on this part of the ship if I can damn help it, and I don't trust the queen—"

"What about my parents?" Emma interrupts. She doesn't know why she feels so stubborn about this; she's even flattered he'd ask her, but for some reason, the thought of manning the wheel also terrifies her.

"Your father and I aren't exactly on good terms, love."

Emma snorts. "You're going have to talk to each other at some point."

He flashes her a knowing, condescending grin. "And why's that, Swan?"

"Save it," Emma huffs. "Well, what about Mar—my mom?"

Hook runs his tongue over his teeth, glancing away from Emma. His tone is careful. "Your mother…I may have said a few choice things to her last time we met, I don't think—"

"_You hit on my mom_?" Emma hisses, her voice dropping an octave, suddenly feeling nauseous. "Okay, that's it, I've heard enough."

"Swan. _Swan_." She turns to go, and he grabs her wrist with his hook, whipping her back around, a ridiculously serious expression etched into his features. "Emma. That's not what I said."

She sneers at him, wriggling her wrist from his grip. "Then what did you say?"

To his credit, he actually looks guilty. "That's not important," he says quickly, to which Emma throws him a look which plainly says she doesn't believe him. "What _is_ important is that if we're to find your lad, we have to work as a team. I seem to recall us making quite a fine one back in the Enchanted Forest."

She sighs, annoyed that he has a point. He always seems to, and it never fails to ruffle her. He then gives her an oddly fond smile. "I _also_ recall telling you that you'd make one hell of a pirate. Given the fact that you've commandeered my ship once before, I feel quite confident in that evaluation. Contrary to what you may believe, darling, I want _you _at the wheel, and not by process of elimination."

She flushes, looking away to hide the blush tickling her cheeks. She can handle him when he's being sleazy, when he's being sarcastic—when he is being anything but complimentary. "Okay, fine," she agrees after a beat. "Teach me how to do it."

Hook laughs. "_It_?" He echoes dubiously.

"You know what I mean. Sail it."

His expression shifts back into the absurdly serious one he'd had a moment before. "Emma, before we proceed, I must preface by saying that I never again want to hear you refer to my ship as an 'it'. The Jolly Roger is a loyal lady and I won't hear a word against her."

Emma suppresses a snort of laughter. She has a hard time always taking him seriously, particularly when he gives dramatically flowery speeches that sound like an excerpt from some period romance she read in high school. She presses her lips together, shaking the smile from her face.

"Okay, sorry, yeesh. Sail _her." _

"Better," Hook glowers, stepping aside and gesturing Emma to the wheel. He comes up behind her, placing her hands in the appropriate spots. She shivers, and tells herself it's just the wind. "Now, think of the wheel as an extension of yourself. It's a bit like wielding a sword—actually, that may not help you understand it, given our…entanglement back at the lake."

"Excuse you, buddy," she snaps, arching her neck back to get a look at him, "I beat you in that swordfight."

"Mm-hm," he murmurs dismissively, the corners of his lips twitching. His fingers graze over the top of her hand, his breath tickling her hair. "As I was saying, darling, when you steer the wheel, you're speaking to the ship. You listen to the wind and follow its lead."

He leans over her shoulder, and, after a moment's hesitation, uses his hook to dig a P and an S into the wood, next to a previously scratched out version.

"P is port," he says, his voice now just above a whisper, "and S is starboard. Turn her two knots to starboard." The breath caught in her throat, Emma does so. The ship lurches quietly, but almost indistinctly.

"Easy as pie," she says, hoping her voice doesn't carry the nerves or even pride running through her veins.

He steps away from her, and she actually misses the warmth. Hook gives her a funny look. "Indeed it is," he muses, his eyes glazing over in thought. The exhaustion returns to his face as he slowly runs a hand through his hair.

Emma watches the motion as if transfixed, shaking herself only out of it when his eyes snap back to hers. "Steering is intuitive. We'll be passing through Mermaid Lagoon soon, which we must do as silently and carefully as possible if we don't want them to attack. I'm going to rest for a few hours, but you wake me if anything happens."

He turns to go, and Emma knows she should feel terrified at being left alone at the wheel, but…instead she feels thrilled, excited, and inexplicably proud. He pauses on the stairwell, looking over his shoulder with that oddly fond look again. "She looks good on you," he says finally, softly. "_The Jolly_."

"Maybe I'm more than just a first mate," she smirks dismissively, trying to laugh away the compliment. _He needs to stop doing that_, she thinks, because she still doesn't know how to respond.

But he doesn't laugh. His eyes burn into hers, an intensely serious look turning over his face, like a mixture of realization and something else, something indescribable yet strangely familiar.

"Perhaps you are, Captain Swan."


	7. they grow up so fast (pt 1)

**Much to David's chagrin, Regina seems to think that the reason they haven't found Henry is because Hook and Emma are too busy making eyes at each other.**

* * *

"What are you insinuating, Regina?"

Swatting at the massive leaf to her left, the queen staggers a bit around a lifted root and grunts, glaring over her shoulder at the couple behind her. "I'm just saying that," she snaps, voice suddenly raising, "I think we'd have found Henry by now if our guide was more interested in exploring Neverland than he was Emma."

David freezes for a moment, his fist curling and batting against his thigh. He opens his mouth with a reply, but an arm flies in front of his chest, silencing him. Mary Margaret steps forward. "Come on, Regina, we're all doing our part to look for Henry. Hook included. He's even been…surprisingly helpful."

"That's my _point_," Regina replies smugly.

"You're just angry because we haven't had any leads yet, and you're looking to blame it on someone," Rumple cuts in smoothly as he steps over a log, passing the three of them with a shake of his head.

"Be that as it may, I'm not here to babysit their hormones," Regina hisses, lowering her voice as Emma comes crashing through a thicket, her hair wild around her face.

"What's taking you guys? Hook's got a limp and we're moving faster than you all," she asks, eyes wide.

"Swan?" Hook's voice echoes, a moment later appearing from the brush that Emma has just emerged from. "Where did you g—oh."

Emma throws him a dubious look before turning her attention back to the others. "You need to keep up, we have a lot of ground to cover before nightfall," she says firmly.

"We know, honey, we're going as fast as we can," Mary Margaret sighs tiredly, eying her and Regina's heeled boots and Rumple's cane.

"Well, we could split up," Hook offers, stepping forward with a shrug. "I can take Swan and we'll comb the western end while you lot take the east. And we'll meet back at the ship by dusk."

"I don't think that's a good idea," David says instantly, glaring at the pirate.

"Why not, _mate_? The crocodile is the only other one familiar with the island," Hook replies, raising a challenging eyebrow. All eyes turn to Rumple, who shrugs in agreement.

"Then I'll go with you two."

"Right, that's a lovely plan; leave the queen and your wife alone together with only Rumplestitlskin between them."

David opens his mouth, but closes it a moment later, looking to Mary Margaret with a frown.

"This is ridiculous," Emma huffs, stepping between her father and Hook. "It makes sense. Hook and I are moving fast anyway."

"That's what I'm afraid of," David mumbles under his breath.

Emma stares at him for a moment, her nose wrinkled as if she's trying to decide if she heard him right. "What was that?" David only grunts in reply, turning on his heel and walking back to his wife with his fists balled at his sides.

"Dusk, then?" Emma repeats, looking to her mother for confirmation, who nods curtly.

Hook flicks his gaze between Emma and David with a knowing smirk. He then clears his throat, swiveling to face Emma. "Shall we, darling?" He asks, bowing and extending his hand as if for a dance.

She brushes past it, rolling her eyes. Hook glances over his shoulder at David, throwing his hand and hook into the air in mock exasperation. "Swans. What are you going to do; can't live with them, can't live without them," he quips.

"Hook!" comes Emma's voice, already sounding faraway. As if he can't resist, Hook passes one last condescending smirk to David before slipping off through the foliage after Emma.

The remaining four of them stand awkwardly still for a moment, until Rumple clears his throat impatiently and begins walking in the opposite direction from which Hook and Emma disappeared to. After a moment's hesitation, Mary Margaret takes off after him, leaving David glaring at Regina.

"Hate to say I told you so," she murmurs vindictively, pursing her lips and relishing in watching him squirm. David sighs in the direction of Emma and Hook, as if willing the forest to send Emma barreling back through the brush.

He trusts Emma, and, even if he won't admit it aloud, he trusts Hook, but he definitely doesn't trust the two of them alone. But he has to.

"Even in Neverland," Regina laughs smugly, turning on her heel, "they grow up so fast."

* * *

**Wonder what happens when Hook and Emma go off in the other direction, right? This is a 2-parter, so stay tuned!**


	8. they grow up so fast (pt 2)

**prompt: hook realizes he may care for Emma more than he wants to admit when she's put in danger**

**:)**

* * *

"You know, maybe you can clarify something for me," Emma says, slashing her knife indiscriminately at the shrubbery ahead of her.

Hook watches her arm rise and fall with every cut, looking as though he wants to interrupt, but Emma doesn't let him, "Why is it that you can be civil to _Gold_ but you can't go _two minutes_ without picking a fight with my father?"

"Why, does it bother you?" He laughs somewhat nervously, still eying her movements with the knife carefully. "Swan, you may want to not—"

"It doesn't _bother_ me," Emma snaps, swiveling around to face him. "I just…I'm saying that it's hard enough with Regina and my mom, and Regina and Gold, and Regina and my father, four people who all hate each other, all fighting and arguing amongst themselves. I don't need this from _you_, too."

He's silent for a beat, scanning his eyes over her face. "Noted, Emma," he says finally. They lock eyes for a moment before Emma turns on her heel and resumes her method of cutting through the brush. "Fathers…tend not to like me," Hook adds as an afterthought. "I learned that long ago."

He phrases it like it's intended to be a joke, but his tone implies its anything but. Emma stops, glancing at him over her shoulder, wondering if she should pry. He glances off, knowing he can't hide a lie if she asks. "What's that supposed to me—ah!"

His eyes flick back to the spot where Emma is—or, rather, was. His heart slams against his chest and he pivots, hand already on the top of his blade. "Swan?" He calls, surprised at the feverish pitch his voice has taken, "Emma? _Emma_!"

After what feels like far too long for the pirate's liking, Emma's muffled call sounds back. Her voice sounds like it's coming from—Hook glances up to see Emma thrashing wildly in a tangle of vines, her blade between her teeth as she beats at the plant holding her captive. It's a plump yellowish-green succulent the size of a baby elephant, covered in large pink blooms and writhing dark green vines, currently encircled around Emma's waist.

"Bloody bludgering hell," he hisses, wasting no time in hoisting himself up the base of the tree from which she dangles, for once thankful for the hook as it helps him climb faster. "Keep moving, Emma!" He calls, nearly to her height, "don't let the vipers touch you!"

Once he reaches her level, he swings himself onto the branch and immediately scampers across it, deftly dodging a thrashing vine while still somehow maintaining his balance. If she wasn't so preoccupied, she might've been amazed; for someone who spends so much of his time on a ship, he certainly knows how to climb a tree.

Hook unsheathes his blade, locking eyes with Emma. "When I say so, take your knife and plunge it into the center of the plant," he murmurs steadily. Her eyes widen, but she nods, removing the dagger from between her teeth and struggling to position it.

He raises the sword high above his head, bellowing, "Now!" as he swings it down, slicing the plant from the branch as Emma sinks her blade into it. The plant lets out a high-pitched screech from a mouth that had been disguised by the bright pink flowers and releases Emma, plummeting down.

She too begins to feel herself fall, already screaming, when abruptly she stops, her legs dangling below her. She glances up to see his hook snagged on her coat collar, staring down at her with a smile that's equal parts adrenaline and fear.

With a grunt, he hoists her up, his torso against the branch, his limbs splayed over. The moment Emma is up on the branch, straddling it, he envelops her in a deep, sudden hug, his breathing ragged.

Emma freezes, her eyes threatening to flutter closed at the feeling of his arms encircled around her. She's about to lean into the hug out of instinct, the desire to be closer, warmer—when he pushes her back, turning her shoulders from side to side as he inspects her.

"What—what are you doing?" Emma breathes, trying to catch his eyes, which are wide with fear as he scans them over her body.

"Checking for scratches," he mumbles, relief flooding back into his voice, "but I don't see any, thank the stars. if you'd been nicked we'd have a real problem on our hands."

She tries to laugh, but it just comes out sounding like a choked cough. "But I'm good, right?" She asks nervously.

He smiles, nodding and hopping up to a standing position with a strange amount of ease. He offers her his hand, and after a moment of staring at it, she takes it, letting him hoist her up. They climb down the tree in silence, and it isn't until Emma digs her her knife out of the dead plant that either of them speak, both opening their mouths at the same time.

"You first, lass," he says, an unreadable look on his face.

"No, you, it's fine," Emma tries, but he merely shakes his head. She moves to wipe the plant's remains off her dagger on a leaf. "Well…I just wanted to…I mean, on that note, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

His ears twitch, catching her eye. Were they always so pointed? "Go on, then," he says with a strange eagerness.

"If I die," she starts, and Hook instantly lets out an audible groan, to which she silences with a sharp glare, "If I die, I need you to promise me you'll make sure Henry gets back the others."

"Did I not already promise that?"

"You only promised to take us to Neverland, technically," Emma says quietly, eyes on the jungle floor. Her voice drops to a whisper. "I just need to hear you say it."

"I swear it, Emma," he replies lowly, taking a tentative step towards her. After a moment's hesitation, he runs his hand up her arm, willing her to look at him. "But you're not going to die, not on my watch. Or was that not obvious yet?"

Emma scans his face, her eyes wide and breathing loudly. "Thanks for that, by the way," she adds, almost begrudgingly.

"Did I not tell you long ago that you had me to protect you?" He quips, a soft smile breaking across his face.

She glances down at his hand, still running up and down her arm, but doesn't protest. After a moment, she steps back, instantly missing the warmth. "I don't need protecting," she snaps, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. _That was too close for comfort_, she thinks, and suddenly wonders if she's referring to Hook or the demon plant.

"No, just rescuing," Hook throws after her, anger teetering into his tone.

"You didn't rescue me!"

"I'm sorry Swan, I must've blanked on the moment where I bloody saved your life _twice_ in one minute," he growls, and Emma whirls around, her hair flying madly.

She opens her mouth with a retort, but closes it a moment later, her eyes softening. "You're right. Sorry. Fighting doesn't help anything."

"You're right too," he says, after a beat. "We can take equal credit. I…told you before we made quite the team, did I not?"

A nervous smile crosses Emma's face, nodding silently. The air suddenly feels hotter, and she wonders if its just her. "Well…let's keep moving. I don't wanna stick around to meet whatever friends that thing's got."

"Aye," Hook agrees, glancing at the plant's corpse. Emma nods once more before spinning around and continuing forward. He watches her retreating form, biting his lip. He hadn't known such a mix of a emotions—fear, worry, anger, relief, _happiness_—in centuries, and here he was, feeling it all in the span of five minutes.

His heart hadn't yet returned to a normal pace, still slamming against his chest as if planning an escape. The way he'd felt, seeing Emma in the clutches of that monster plant…he hadn't felt that way since the day he lost his hand.

Emma's cough brings him back to his senses, and he realizes he's been staring at his hook. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, bringing his gaze to the blonde woman before him.

"Can you keep up?" She asks, not unkindly, glancing at his injured leg, and he wonders if she knows how strong, how amazing she is.

"Yes, love," he says after a moment, stepping forward, "always."

* * *

**btw guys i would love some reviews if you've got a minute! always love feedback :)**


	9. quite the team

**during a battle with the Lost Boys, Mary Margaret notices something about her daughter and the pirate.**

* * *

She arches her back, whips a quiver from behind, strings it, and lets the arrow fly. It misses its target, but grazes the shoulder of another Lost Boy, sending him barreling backwards.

Though he wouldn't say why, Hook had given firm instructions not to aim to kill, but Mary Margaret can see both Gold and Regina struggling to take heed of that order, shooting off fireballs indiscriminately.

The clash of swords echoes up to where she hides in the crow's nest, the harsh glint of steel crashing from every possible direction. David engages a tall, lanky blonde boy with a deep gash across his forehead while Hook and Emma spar off three of the bigger Lost Boys.

She draws another arrow and releases it towards a fourth boy coming at Emma from the side, cringing when it hits him square in the leg. He doubles over, howling.

_They're not children_, Hook's voice assures her,_ they just want you to believe they are_.

The _real_ children are trapped on the island, their cries and wails echoing far over the Neverland sea. But Mary Margaret doesn't have time to think about that, she has her family to focus on.

Her eyes snap down to Emma and Hook again, her hand hovering on another quiver, looking for a target. The two of them stand back to back, Hook whirling his sword, flashing brilliantly in the moonlight, around his head as he spars off a Lost Boy. Emma, behind him, brandishes a small cutlass somewhat clumsily, but makes up for it in swift fist-work that has clearly been borrowed from her time on the streets.

If anything, Emma Swan packs a punch. Mary Margaret stands transfixed, watching her daughter and the pirate fend off their attackers as if dancing. He steps; she steps, even with their backs turned, their footwork incredibly in sync.

With a flourish of his hook, he disarms the Lost Boy and sends the short-sword whizzing overhead. "Swan!" He bellows over his shoulder.

"Got it!" Emma calls back, reaching up and snagging the blade by the handle, and in one swift motion, brings the blunt end down on the temple of her attacker. He collapses next to her, leaving just the biggest boy, still barreling towards Hook with another dagger pulled from his boot.

Hook throws Emma a terse look over his shoulder, to which she curtly nods, and he grabs her by the crook of the elbow and swings her around. Mary Margaret gasps suddenly, her hand still frozen over her arrow, watching her daughter slam feet first into the chest of the Lost Boy.

He falls back with a resounding thud, with Emma straddling his chest. She brings the handle of her cutlass down onto his skull, knocking him out.

She pants heavily for a moment, staring down at the unconscious Lost Boy, before accepting the hand of the pirate, and he whips her to her feet, his smile visible even from where Mary Margaret stands in the crow's nest. Emma's laughter rings out, delirious and filled with adrenaline, to which the captain returns with his own low, winded chuckle.

Mary Margaret stares at their hands, still entwined. They drop them a moment later and rush off to help David, fighting the same lanky boy from before. She shakes her head to clear her thoughts, and loads her bow, firing an arrow off at a Lost Boy circling Regina. _Emma can take care of herself_, she reminds herself, and others need her attention.

_Still_, she thinks as she searches for her next target, her eyes falling back on the still synchronized Emma and Hook, _they do make quite the team._

* * *

**i'm planning on replying to all the reviews i've gotten soon, but it would be so nice to get some more! its always encouraging. :)**


	10. not a no

**prompt: Jealous Emma seeing Hook going all innuendo with Regina**

* * *

"And I suppose that you think, that just because you're captain of the Jolly Roger, you're captain over all of us," Regina spits, her eyes dark.

Hook rolls his eyes and licks his lips, and from her distance across the deck, Emma can't tell if he's just glanced her way or not. He eyes Regina carefully, smirking. "Love, I made no such claim. However, you can try to jolly _my_ roger all you'd bloody like, I've—"

Emma didn't know her legs had even moved that fast, but before she knew it, she was at Hook's side, breathing more raggedly than she would've like to admit.

Both Hook and Regina swivel their heads to Emma, expectant expressions on their faces. "I, um," Emma says after a beat, "thought you might be talking about Henry."

Regina purses her lips disdainfully, flicking her gaze between Emma and the pirate. "We're done here," she declares, turning on her heel as dramatically as one can on a swaying pirate ship.

Hook pivots to face Emma, his arms crossed. He raises a lone eyebrow, lips twitching, and she knows exactly what he's implying. Before meeting him, she didn't even know people could communicate so thoroughly with only one eyebrow.

"Save it," she snaps.

"That was quite the footwork, Swan," Hook notes finally, teasing in his tone.

"Like I said, I thought you might be talking about Henry," Emma says. "Don't be so full of yourself, buddy, it wasn't anything more than that."

"Darling, I didn't say that, you did," Hook replies, almost in a sing-song voice now. "I was merely pointing out your…enthusiasm to join the conversation, but now that you've mentioned it…"

Emma huffs, putting her hands on her hips and rolling her eyes out to sea. "I think you didn't like me speaking to the Queen," Hook adds, his voice just above a whisper. Emma's eyes snap back to his, glaring wildly. "The offer stands for you in priority, of course. I didn't think that needed to be voiced, but I'd be more than happy to send you reminders of my gentlemanly intentions. You need only say the word, love."

"You're full of shit," Emma says, but the ghost of a smile pulls dangerously at her lips.

"Is that a yes?"

Emma swivels to make her leave. She gets a few paces before stopping, throwing her neck over her shoulder. Slowly, her eyes rise from the deck to his face, bashfully, which surprises both of them. Emma Swan doesn't _do_ bashful.

"It's not a no," she says finally. She turns around before the smile blooming on her face can give too much away, leaving both of them to their thoughts.


	11. the return

**"****_You bloody kept it_****?" Hook nearly shrieks, a look of rage washing over his face as he too recognizes the object. "After all this time? As some sort of****_ sick trophy_****?"**

* * *

"Here we are," Hook whispers, more to himself than anyone, but Emma glances over, just close enough to hear him. Sensing her gaze, he flicks his eyes to her, a thin, almost uncomfortable smile pulling at his lips. "Storybrooke," he says to her, his voice forced.

And she knows why, in the way she inexplicably _always_ seems to know with him.

In Neverland, on the Jolly Roger, on the search for Henry, he had a place. He had a purpose. Now, with Henry safely woven underneath her arms, the wind kissing his forehead as the ship descends from the skies, Hook is back at square one, staring down an empty road.

"Home," she replies encouragingly, allowing herself to give him a soft smile. Hesitation—an unfamiliar look on the pirate—flickers over his face before he returns the smile, albeit nervously.

She'd be lying if she said things weren't different now between the two of them.

Somewhere between him saving her from drowning at the webbed hands of a hungry mermaid and her protecting him from a deranged nine year old with a short sword—something shifted.

His teasing became gentler, her laughter more common, his stares, already always charged with desire, took on a whole new intensity that she didn't quite know how to describe—maybe even _longingly_ was the word—but she also certainly didn't dislike.

But Henry was the focus, and he knew that, no matter how long his eyes lingered on her lips. And he wasn't going to instigate anything while she was still in mourning of Neal, but she was glad he didn't—it was as if waiting for her to be ready.

Ready for _what_, she isn't sure. She has asked herself that question every day in Neverland, and she still doesn't have the answer.

She almost wishes to grab his hand just to soothe his nerves, but he's standing to her right and his hook juts out from his sleeve rather than his hand. She stares at it for a moment before turning her gaze back to the docks of Storybrooke, now just below them.

A silhouette stands waiting at the docks, as if somehow expecting them, russet hair billowing in the wind. She glances over at Gold, still pale from his brush with death. Hook, of all people, had been the one to save his life back there, having seen the threat first and nearly died himself in the attempt to stop it—a fact which neither man seemed comfortable admitting or addressing.

"Belle," Emma says softly, recognizing the figure, then repeats it louder, over her shoulder to Gold. He straightens, rushing to the railing of the ship, relief flooding over his face in the form of a wobbly smile.

By the time the ship touches the water, most of the golden pixie dust has fallen off the wood, a few blinking yellow specks remaining in the swollen sails.

Hook leaves Emma's side to dock the ship, his motions terse and tense as he brings them to port. As they all descend the gangplank, Emma motions Regina to take Henry. She wants to wait for Hook, if only to make sure he doesn't disappear the moment they all step on dry land. She can tell he's thinking about it.

"Are you coming?" Emma asks, the last one on board.

He only looks at her, giving her the same restrained stare he's been gazing at her with since he pulled her out of the clutches of mermaids. Emma raises her eyebrows, and for a moment, she's afraid he will say no. She's had enough people leave her, and he's the only one who's come back. He can't go _now_, not after…

"Aye," Hook replies after a beat, as if reading her thoughts. Her heart slams against her chest so loudly she thinks he might hear it.

The minute they step onto the dock, Emma is greeted by a forceful hug from Belle. Emma stumbles back a bit, surprised. "_Thank you_," Belle breathes, "for bringing him back to me."

Emma smirks. "It's actually not me you should be thanking," she says wryly, glancing over her shoulder at Hook. "He's the one who saved his life."

Belle's mouth drops open, glancing between the pirate and Gold. "Rumple, is that true?"

Both men emit a terse huff of agreement, looking off in other directions. Emma spares a glance at her parents and Regina, waiting on expectantly. Mary Margaret sends Emma a knowing smile, to which she frowns at.

Belle crosses the dock to a rather exhausted looking Rumple, and puts her hand on his shoulder. "You know, in my time as shopkeeper, I happened to notice something in the back room that might serve as a 'thank you'—something that doesn't quite belong to you. " she says softly, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, that is the nature of a pawn shop," Rumple replies smoothly, a condescending smile inching up his lips.

"_Rumple_."

His face drops, and after a moment of glancing around at the curious faces of those around him, he sighs audibly. "Very well. Hook, I may have something of yours that I expect you'd like back."

Hook opens his mouth likely in protest, his eyebrow already raised sarcastically, but Rumple cuts him off. "Trust me when I say, you're going to want this." He then swivels to face Emma. "And Miss Swan, you may want to send your boy home with your parents or Regina, as I expect you plan to join us whether or not I invite you along."

"Damn straight," Emma smiles mirthlessly. She nods to her parents, crossing to Henry. She drops a kiss onto his forehead. "I'll see you tomorrow, kid. Get some sleep." Exhaustion sweeps over his face and he nods sleepily as Regina steers him off.

Emma watches the four of them slip off before turning to the remaining group. "Now what?"

* * *

"Wait here," Rumple instructs the moment they step foot into the pawnshop, slipping off behind a dark curtain beyond the register. Hook glances around, his fist still balled at his sides, clearly uncomfortable.

"Interesting collection," he murmurs, eying an amber pendant in the display case the way a child eyes candy.

"So," Belle hums eagerly. "Where'd you go?"

"Neverland," Emma replies, only barely stifling an eye roll.

Belle gasps excitedly, her face lighting up. "Oh, I've read all about Neverland! Was it as—"

"No," Emma immediately interrupts, exchanging an amused smile with Hook, "no, it was not."

Rumple then emerges from the back room, carrying a glass terrarium on a wooden pedestal. Emma strains her eyes to see what's inside, widening as she realizes what it is.

"_Is that_—"

"_You bloody kept it_?" Hook nearly shrieks, a look of rage washing over his face as he too recognizes the object. "After all this time? As some sort of_ sick trophy_?"

Rumple only smiles thinly. "Well, aren't you glad I did?" He hisses in a restrained voice. "Was I right in expecting this is something you'd want back?"

The anger drops from Hook's face, his mouth abruptly shutting. Emma glances between him and the object—_His fucking hand_, she thinks to herself, _here, the whole time_—eyebrows high on her forehead.

"As a show of thanks," Rumple says lowly, still begrudgingly, giving his hand a flourish. A plume of purple smoke envelops his left arm as the crash of metal clanks to the floor. Emma's eyes follow the source of the sound; the hook sits at his feet, suddenly just…an object. Gradually, she raises her gaze to his left hand—_his left hand_.

Hook—_Killian_—raises his hand in front of him, flexing it, clenching and uncurling it slowly with his mouth agape. Belle beams at Rumple, who stands impatiently, but the ghost of a smile traces his lips. "Holy shit," Emma murmurs, staring at his hand.

Her voice seems to break him of his thoughts. He turns to her, a wild and unreadable look on his face, causing Emma's heart to jump. It's as if all the ways he's ever looked at her have found their way into one expression.

"Emma," Killian breathes, his voice soft, "may I have your permission to do something I never thought I would do again?"

She tries to speak, but finds her throat dry, so she just nods, her eyes wide as he closes the distance between them. His right hand reaches up to her face, and slowly, after a moment's trepidation, he raises his left hand and cups her cheek with it.

His fingers ghost around her ear as his thumb traces circles on her skin, causing her eyes to flutter closed. They stand like that for a moment, and when she opens her eyes, he's staring at her with an unrestrained and undeniably…_hopeful_ look. Her heart skips again.

"May I do the _other_ thing I never thought I would do again?" He whispers hesitantly.

Emma's face breaks into a smile, and she laughs softly, almost deliriously, nodding _yes_ nearly imperceptibly. He scans her eyes worriedly, as if giving her an opportunity to run, before dipping his head down, his lips brushing against hers.

The kiss is gentler than she would've expected. But then again, so are they; two soft, broken souls encased in hard, protective shells.

She doesn't know how long they stand entwined, as if it's just the two of them alone in the room. She doesn't care if Belle and Rumple see. Hell, she doesn't care if _anyone_ can see.

His left hand only leaves her face to run through her hair, never breaking the kiss. He plays with it for a moment, bunching it up in his fist before returning it back to her skin, tickling her neck, shoulders, back, waist—everywhere his hand can be, it is.

When they finally break for air, they truly are alone in the pawnshop, Belle and Rumple having slipped off. "Home?" She breathes, their eyes still glazed over and foreheads beaded with sweat.

He pauses, but only barely. "Home," he agrees. Emma takes his left hand in hers, and squeezes it as if to remind both of them it's still there.

They step into the moonlight, their fingers laced.


	12. the song

**"Darling, a beautiful woman is the ****_only_**** thing mermaids hate more than they hate a bird for being able to fly. And given the fact that you are one ****_hell_**** of a swan, I'd request that you ****_please_**** remain out of their line of sight while I conduct our business."**

* * *

"You can come out, you know," he says lightly, a sigh tipping into the end of his voice. "I know you're there, Swan."

There's a pause and a brief rustling of leaves before Emma steps out from behind a mossy tree trunk, her brow wrinkled. "How'd you know?"

He swivels on his heel, turning to face her with an incorrigible smirk. "You're quite good, surprisingly. Light on your feet. I almost didn't notice." He raises an appraising eyebrow, an almost…fond smile tracing along his lips.

"But how did you?" Emma presses, stepping forward with her arms crossed.

"I don't think you'll like my answer," he replies in a sing-song voice, clearly baiting her. Emma merely responds with a glare. He purses his lips, bemused—what is it about her that he finds so _damn_ funny, she wonders—considering his words. "I could smell you."

Well. She hadn't been expecting that.

"I'm sorry—what?" She hisses, the oddest sensation running up her arms. She can't decide if she's aroused or creeped out. Maybe both. It's kind of common when dealing with him, anyway.

That crooked grin appears again, and so does her desire to smack it off of him. "You were tracking me downwind, Swan," he says smugly, turning on his heel and gesturing her to follow him, "and your scent is a standout. The Neverland jungle, in case you failed to take notice, smells sickly sweet. Thick enough for a knife." He throws his gaze over to her, eyebrows dancing dangerously, "Musky. _Moist_."

"Stop trying to distract me," she snaps, the blood rushing to her cheeks.

"Why, is it working?" He laughs, looking delightfully pleased with himself. "As I was saying—_you_, my love, smell of morning after rain, with the oddest hint of vanilla." He pauses, an unreadable look suddenly crossing his features. "Like I said, you're a stand out."

She nearly trips at that. If she thought her face was pink before, she didn't even want to know what she must look like now. She doesn't know what to say—she never does when he throws her compliments out of left field—so she doesn't say anything at all, which only makes him laugh again, but softer this time, almost sarcastically, even emptily.

"Where are we going, anyway?" She asks, desperate to change the subject.

"Mermaid Lagoon," he replies after a beat.

"_What_?" She hisses, her voice dropping to a whisper, though she doesn't know why. She catches the hysterics in her tone and straightens. "I mean, if I remember right, you told us that was the one place we'd never be going. That was one of the first things you said, actually."

"Yes, well, I did intend to hold true to that," he quips, stopping abruptly with his arms and eyebrows crossed. "Hence the whole slipping-off-at-the-break-of-dawn-_alone_ escapade."

"But aren't mermaids…evil? I think your exact phrasing was 'unpredictable water-succubi with a penchant for flesh', actually," Emma snorts, supplying her own air quotes along with a (very) bad imitation of his accent.

"You make me sound so old," he pouts.

"You _are_ so old. Stop trying to change the subject again."

He smiles wickedly at that, as if proud of her for catching him. He turns on his heel, marching forward. "Yes, mermaids are dastardly beasts, but only if they don't like you. Me, they happen to love."

He stops again, throwing her a cautious look. He then reaches forward to draw back a curtain of low-hanging vines, revealing a dazzlingly blue inlet, sparkling with dragonflies and gleaming yellow specks of what seems like dust.

Emma gasps despite herself, straining her eyes to get a closer look. Neverland, for all its dangers, never failed to deliver on its promise of beauty. However, she did notice that the two things tended to go hand-in-hand. He steps in front of her, a serious expression etched into his features.

"Darling, a beautiful woman is the _only_ thing mermaids hate more than they hate a bird for being able to fly. And given the fact that you are one _hell_ of a swan, I'd request that you _please_ remain out of their line of sight while I conduct our business."

Her face burns, mouth agape. She's still not sure if that's genuinely the way he sees her or if he's just trying to manipulate her. She bets on the latter, but can't help but hope on the former. "But what business?" Emma asks quietly, hoping to steer the subject back to the mermaids.

"The crocodile and the queen have been getting restless without any leads," Hook sighs, "and I worry for what they may be planning."

"What do you care what they do?" Emma asks, eyes narrowed.

"I don't," he replies smoothly, giving her an intense look, "but I do care what the consequences of that could be. It potentially puts the bloody rest of us in danger. The arrogance of the two leads them to believe they have the element of surprise over our foes—but I assure you, Emma, our presence was known the moment we broke surface."

Emma crosses her arms, considering this. He's right, of course—Regina and Gold have been acting suspiciously secretive in the past few days, sharing hushed conversations and knowing looks. They may have the right intentions—find Henry—but she'd be lying if she didn't worry about their methods.

"So why the mermaids, then?"

"Our enemies have eyes in the sky, but I have eyes in the sea," Hook says with a tinge of pride. "The mermaids are horrible gossips—if they know anything about your boy, they won't be able to resist sharing the intel. Not without a little…prodding, anyway," he adds devilishly, his implication clear.

She's not sure if he's just trying to get a reaction out of her or if he's serious, but it's working either way. Emma huffs, finding her hands on her hips.

He's silent for a long moment, running his tongue over his teeth as he flicks his gaze between Emma and the lagoon. "You've come this far with me, so you might as well be my lookout. But you'll promise you will stay out of their sight?"

Emma rolls her eyes, annoyed at first because she thinks he's insulting her; she can take care of herself, after all. But as she glances over to him, she realizes he wears an expression of worry. Genuine fear. She straightens then, her face sobering. "Yeah."

He smiles, though somewhat nervously, and turns around, slipping through the wall of vines. She waits a few seconds before hesitantly following in suit, crouching behind a nearby boulder as he nimbly hops along the rocky path kissing the lagoon's edge.

He stops on a smooth, dark rock and runs his hand across the surface of the water as gently as one touches silk. The water ripples, and a moment later, a kelp-green slip of hair slowly rises to the surface, followed seamlessly by a whole head, the face of a woman with ice-blue skin, beautiful even from Emma's distance.

He smiles deeply down the mermaid, Emma's stomach already in knots. _Nerves_, she tells herself. Mermaids are dangerous.

The mermaid swims closer to him, her elbows resting on the rock upon which he perches, her face gleaming with a seductive grin. They begin to speak, but from where she hides, she can't make out what they're saying.

Maybe if she stands, she can get a better ear on it. The mermaid is distracted by him, anyway, and it's not like she doesn't trust him, but she doesn't quite like the way they're leering at each other either. He should focus on—

A small whisper catches her attention, the cobalt-blue head of another mermaid bobbing along the surface, not far off from where she stands. "Psst!" the mermaid giggles, a webbed hand waving gently at her.

_Oh hell no_, she thinks to herself, remembering Hook's warning. Then, suddenly, it's gone. Hook clearly doesn't know what he's talking about—she's nothing more than a smiling lady. Blue skin, but a trustworthy face nonetheless. The mermaid beckons her closer, humming a tune so quietly it's as if its in Emma's own head, echoing out at her, drawing her forward.

The mermaid continues to sing, growing louder the closer Emma gets to the shore, her hand outstretched for the mermaid to take. She just wants to hear the song, it's so lovely. She's never heard anything like it, but she _has_ to hear more.

Smiling encouragingly, the mermaid reaches forward for Emma's hand. Emma's feet splash into the lagoon, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Hook's dark head flash in her direction. Distantly, she hears what she thinks is her name bellowing out to her, but the song is prettier, louder, nearly deafening.

Suddenly, she's pulled under, the water darker than it seemed on the surface. Silvery green scales flash around her, webbed hands clutching her arms. The song is intoxicating at this point, and she feels so sleepy, almost like she's being sung a lullaby…

Abruptly, the singing stops, replaced by unearthly high pitched shrieks which break her from her trance. _Holy shit_, she thinks, realizing she's drowning. Emma's eyes widen as she takes in the jagged, pearly teeth of a mermaid barreling towards her.

A scream emits from her mouth in the form of a bubble, and she immediately whips her knife from her boot, slashing it at the approaching mermaid. Emma Swan is _not_ going down without a fight.

A gleam of metal catches her eye, followed by the billowing of blood, but before she can get a sense of her bearings, she feels a tug on her ankle, and she's being pulled down farther, deeper, darker. Her consciousness is fading, and she realizes she might die.

She's going to die without ever seeing Henry again. She's going to die without seeing her parents again. She's going to die without seeing—a hook?

That same flash of silver appears in her peripherals, the distinct neck of a hook the last thing she sees before the world turns black.

* * *

"No, no, bloody, bloody hell _no_." She hears yelling, but despite the tone, it sounds distant, far away. It's getting closer, louder.

A pressure keeps beating onto her chest, her brain too fuzzy to make out what it is. Accompanied by the beats is the oddest, softest, warmest feeling on her lips. It's a nice feeling. Like, _really_ nice. Familiar, too. Almost like—

Suddenly, her eyes fly open, spitting water over her shoulder, coughing violently, her throat and nose stinging with salt. Next to her, Hook falls back, his face too close in proximity not to confirm her suspicion that he'd been giving her mouth-to-mouth.

"How about you wait until the first date before trying to get to first base?" She snaps, though she doesn't know why she's angry, given that he just saved her life.

Hook, his face pale and eyes wildly wide, seems to agree, his mouth twisting into a frown. He doesn't need to know the slang to gather the implication.

"How about a thank you, you damned woman?" He throws back, his rage building as he jumps to a standing position, pacing. "You swore! I warned you! Do you have any _bloody_ idea what it was like seeing you—how I—and when—" He runs a hand through his hair, his breathing heavy and ragged.

Emma opens her mouth with a harsh reply, but shuts it abruptly, recognizing his anger a thin mask for hysterical fear. He was _worried_ about her. No one has ever looked at her the way he looks at her now, the strangest mixture of worry, relief, happiness, anger, and…fondness?

Her eyes soften. "I know. I'm sorry."

He relaxes, seemingly loosing the will to argue. "It's my own damn fault for thinking the mermaids wouldn't lure you out," he says finally, slumping onto the sand next to her.

"No," Emma shivers, shaking her head, "you trusted me. I appreciate that, even if it went to shit."

He gives her a bemused, fond smile, offering her his hand. "Isn't that the very nature of our relationship, darling?"

Hook helps her stand, her legs still wobbly. She tries to release his hand, but he catches it, squeezing it to make sure she looks at him. "Please don't scare me like that again, Emma. And…trust me, next time."

She's indescribably touched by the way by which he looks at her. Her parents, she expects this kind of worry from. But not him.

But she's quickly learning he's full of surprises. And so is she, around him. For all her defenses, walls, scars and fears, Emma can't help but smile and give his hand a squeeze back. "I trust you."

* * *

**longest one yet! would love a review :)**


	13. what's in a name

**"Oh yeah," Emma muses to herself, a thought occurring to her, "I always forget Hook isn't your real name."**

* * *

"You forget who we are, _Captain_," Regina spits hotly, gesturing between her and Gold. The sun sinks behind them, flooding the deck with amber light, as somewhere overhead, a bird sings an evening song.

"And you forget your place, _majesty_," Hook snarls back. "This is my ship, and I'm telling you, we're anchored for the evening." Regina opens her mouth with a retort, which Hook swiftly cuts off, glancing around at the whole group of them. "Whatever place you think Neverland is, it is not. With the sun that low, if we ventured out onto land now we'd never return."

"But we have magic," Regina says, though she's lost a little of her steam.

"And so do our foes," Hook replies narrowly. "Our best shot at finding Henry is to wait until sunrise. Plainly, love, we're lucky to have come through where we did. Cannibal Cove is the second safest, if not arguably _the_ safest, place for us."

Emma snorts, as if he's joking, before realizing he's not. "Come on. Cannibal Cove?" She asks, exchanging glances with her mother. "You're not serious."

"Deadly," Hook says, his eyes burning into hers. He sighs, turning away. "It's also the quietest."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Regina inserts, crossing her arms.

"You'll soon find out," is Hook's reply as he crosses the deck to lower the anchor.

* * *

Emma sits up, rubbing her temples. She's been tossing and turning for hours, waiting for the crying to stop. Not hers, of course, but the ghostly wails of children echoing over the sea, even resonating down below deck, beating against the hull of the ship like dulled waves.

They all figured out pretty quickly what Hook meant by this being the quietest place, and she doesn't want to think about what the other parts of the island must sound like.

Across the cabin, her mother rustles, having heard Emma move. She flips over, her eyes wide and gleaming with withheld tears. David's arm is draped over her waist. "Where are you going?" She whispers.

"I need air," Emma sighs. She didn't expect to be able to sleep, anyway, not with the flashes of sickly green magic, Neal's hand slipping from hers, Henry in the clutches of Tamara and Greg, all haunting her thoughts every time she shut her eyes.

She escapes to top deck, rubbing her hands over her arms for warmth. It's a cool night, certainly warmer than Storybrooke, which now seems so far away that she can't fathom that she woke there that morning.

A dark figure stands at the railing, the wind breezily whisking his coattails around his calves. She hesitates for a moment before marching forward to join him. Save for a quiet intake of breath, he doesn't acknowledge her presence.

"Can't sleep either?" She starts.

After a pause, he inclines his head towards her. His hair is tussled in the kind of way that only comes from running ones' hand through it often, and his smirk isn't even trying to reach his eyes, but it does tell her he has no intention of answering her question.

Emma focuses her gaze out onto the misty island beyond them, the echoing cries of children drifting back into her conscious. "Does it ever stop?" She asks.

Though she doesn't elaborate, he knows to which she's referring. He glances up at the moon, his brow furrowed. "Give it an hour," Hook says eventually, his voice unreadable.

She suddenly feels awkward, wondering if this was a bad idea. Captain Broody doesn't seem to happy to see her. Maybe if she tries changing tactics. "So. Cannibal Cove, huh?" She asks lightly, to which he snorts audibly. "How'd it get that name if it's apparently so safe?"

"Liked the sound of it, s'pose," comes his eventual reply.

It takes a moment for his implication to set in. "_You_ named it?"

Hook turns to her again, eyes sparked. "That I did, lass. Long ago, believe it or not, I once had a fair amount of…influence in Neverland."

She doesn't know what to make of that, so she lets the silence fill the space between them. It's a comfortable quiet, anyway, like it usually is with him. "I also tried dubbing Mermaid Lagoon 'Lermaid Magoon' as well, but strangely enough, the name quite didn't stick," he adds as an afterthought, soundly oddly nostalgic underneath his teasing tone.

Emma raises an eyebrow, stifling a laugh. The humor seems out of character for the pirate—that's the kind of joke Henry would make. But before she can comment, Hook's voice breaks through her thoughts.

"Names are a powerful magic, Emma," he says lowly.

She wants to write him off, or roll her eyes at how dramatic he is, but his gaze is intense, bluer than the sea beyond them, boring into her skin, making her shiver. He's right, of course.

She'd come into this world with nothing but a baby blanket and a name, and it was the fact that she had the latter that gave her hope as a child. She'd thought that If someone had gone through the trouble of embroidering her name, she must've been cared for, at least at some point, and maybe she could be again.

When that hope faded, when she'd left the system, she'd chosen her own last name. She'd be her own damn family, and she'd fly free doing it.

"I assume Swan is not your given name, after all?" Emma frowns at him, wondering how it is he can read her thoughts so easily. He raises an eyebrow before tucking himself back over the railing, turning his gaze off onto the island. "We may not always choose our names, but we do choose the way we let them shape us."

Emma pauses, letting his words sink in. Every time she thinks she has him pegged, he does or says something so surprising that she remembers she barely knows him. She understands him, sure, but that doesn't mean he doesn't defy her expectations time after time.

"Oh yeah," Emma muses to herself, a thought occurring to her, "I always forget Hook isn't your real name."

"Don't," he says immediately, his voice strained. He turns to look at her, his eyes empty and wrinkled with age. "Please, Emma, if there's only one thing you ever do for me, let it be remembering my name."

She _does_ remember it, the memory as clear as the moment he said it. He inhales sharply as she scans his face, her eyebrows raised. He wants her to say it, to say it _now_, but her throat has gone dry. _Killian_, she thinks, trying to will the words forward. _Killian_.

The moment for her to speak passes, and his eyes flutter with disappointment, giving her a small, sad smile.

"Just don't forget. Because I have, and I will again without…" He trails off, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, they're soft, even vulnerable. Emma lets out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding as her heart slams against her chest. "You are my reminder, after all."


	14. stay

**Prompt - Bae is recued and Killiam leaves Emma because he doesnt wasnt to ruin another family… She goes after him. **

**"Would it make a difference?" He replies softly, brows knitting together. "If I cared?"**

* * *

"Do you mind telling me where the hell you think you're going?" Emma stands at the docks, cheeks aflush as if she'd been running, the wind whipping her hair to and fro.

Killian, standing at the helm, darts his gaze off, up to the moon, batting his tongue into his cheek. "The crocodile once told me to go sail off the edge of the earth. Thought I'd give it a go." He flicks his eyes back to her, and she's struck by the sadness behind his smile. "Love a challenge, after all."

Emma charges up the gangplank, fists curled. "You're running," she accuses hotly, her chest aflame.

His tone is cool, maybe even bemused. He raises a challenging eyebrow. "I'm not running, love."

"Like hell you're not."

He sighs, the hint of a smile dropping from his face. "I'm making myself scarce," he says finally. "I don't aim to dismantle Baelfire's family twice in my lifetime."

Emma is silent for a long minute before she takes a tentative step closer to the wheel. "What are you saying?"

"It's what I'm _not_ saying that you should listen to, Swan," Killian replies, sweeping down the stairs of the helm, his coat billowing out after him.

She swallows, not sure why she suddenly finds it hard to breathe. The prospect of losing him—of him leaving her—leaves an insurmountable hole in her chest, hollow and carved out. "I thought…that we…that you…never mind. It doesn't matter. Have a nice trip, buddy."

With that, she turns on her heel just as she feels tears pricking at her eyes. _Goddamnit_, she thinks, she will not cry in front of him, not about this. Not about _him_.

His steps are hurried behind her, his hand on her wrist, whipping her around. "Wait," he says softly, eyes wide, "what did you think?"

She tries to wiggle out of his grip, but he only pulls her closer, his breath hot on her face as he scans her eyes searchingly. He repeats himself, more pressingly now. "What did you think?"

"What do you care?" She snaps, her eyes narrowed, if only to keep her vision straight.

"Would it make a difference?" He replies softly, brows knitting together. "If I cared?"

Emma's mouth falls open slightly, the breath catching in her throat. "It might," she chokes out.

He takes an imperceptible step back, but it's enough for her to notice. She hates the way it causes as pang in her heart. "What about Baelfire? Now that he's alive, reunited with his family, I assumed—"

"Assumed what? That you could sail off of to the Caribbean drunk off your yo-ho ass, or whatever it is pirates do? That no one would care if you slipped off in the middle of the night?" Emma spits, suddenly filled with rage. Hook's mouth opens to question her, halfway split between confusion and amusement, but she barrels on, her voice softening, "You once told me that we made quite a team. I thought we were in this together."

His eyes are wide, but lingering on her. "But, Baelfire—"

Emma takes a few steps back, running her hands through her hair. "I don't know, I don't know, okay? He's back and I'm so happy and I know I should want to be with him again. I know I _should_. I love him, after all, right?"

Killian is silent for a long while. "Are you asking me, or telling me, darling?"

"Asking. No, telling. No. I mean—I don't know. That's what I'm saying. But what I do know is…I woke up tonight and I just knew you were leaving. Maybe it's this magic ju-ju I have or something, but I knew it. And I _hated_ it. And…that counts for something, right?"

He eyes her. "I'd say that counts for a fair more than 'something', my love."

"I want you to stay."

A grin is budding against his lips, but he holds it back, his eyes sparked as he steps closer. "Is that so?" She nods, finding herself dumbstruck by his increasing proximity. "I once told a man that if he was unwilling to fight for what he wanted, he deserved what he got. That's why I was leaving tonight—after all I've done, I deserve my fate."

"You deserve—"

"Hush, darling, let me finish," he interrupts, shooting her an annoyed, but fond, glance. "But you, Emma—you deserve to be fought _for_. You deserve to be put first, no matter the consequences."

His breath is on her face now, so close she can make out the flecks of green in his eyes. She's also pretty sure her chest has stopped beating. He smiles down at her, soft and sad. "You see my dilemma?"

She doesn't know what to say, so she doesn't say anything at all.

"If you want me to stay, I'll stay. If you want me to fight, I'll fight. Anything you want of me, Emma, is yours," he says slowly, reaching his hand up to cup her face.

Her eyes flutter closed at his touch, exhaling shakily. She wills them back open. "Kiss me, that's what I want," she whispers.

She's expecting a smirk, but all he gives her is apprehension. "Are you sure? Darling, if I kiss you now, I will never be sated. I can't go back. I won't be able to later bow out, if that's to be what you wish."

"Killian, that's _why_ I want you to kiss me," Emma replies breathily. His eyes widen at the sound of his name, and he knows in that moment he's undone. She opens her mouth with another word, but before she can get it out, he sweeps his lips downward, capturing the word on her tongue.

_Semantics be damned_, Emma thinks, her knees bucking. The kiss is electric, unlike anything she's ever known, and he pulls her closer, deeper, his eyes burning.

They'll figure everything else out in the morning. For now, his lips are on hers, her hands are in his hair, the moon is gleaming on their skin; she is his, and he is hers.


	15. day two

**prompt: Killian's cursed self is a musician who plays on the streets of Storybrooke and Emma runs into him on one of her first days in Storybrooke.**

* * *

Emma strolls down the main street, her hands in her pockets, fielding off stares from curious townsfolk with glares of her own. Based off her reception, she supposes Henry really was right when he said that people don't come to Storybrooke.

A couple rushes past her, just close enough for her to catch the words "clock tower," and "8:15." Emma rolls her eyes. This whole damn town is crazy; that's the 4th time she's heard that murmured past her.

She'd only meant to go exploring the main drag, planning on traversing from her room at the B&B and then find her breakfast at the owner's diner, but by now she'd been walking for so long, lost in thought, that she'd found herself by the local park.

She's about to swing around and loop back when she hears the breezy notes of a harmonica whistling through the wind, accompanied by steady beats of a small drum and the crooning of a man. She turns over her shoulder, craning her neck to get a better ear on it. _Kinda Bob-Dylan-y_, she thinks, but not in a bad way.

She follows the source of the sound, and when she turns a corner, she is surprised to see a (very handsome) man about her age, dark scruff lining his jaw, sitting on a park bench with a harmonica at his lips and an upturned hat at his feet. He's dressed casually, in a simple black pullover, dark jeans, and slip on sneakers.

His eyes fall on her instantly, and she's struck by the blueness of them even from a distance. His lips curl around the harmonica before lowering it, beckoning her over. "Got any requests, darling?"

Oh, great, he has an accent. So much for staying focused on breakfast.

She swings over lazily, her hands on her hips and her eyebrow raised. "Storybrooke has street musicians, too?"

The sun in his eyes, he grins up at her, wild and wicked. "Aye, suppose it does. And now it has a new fair-haired muse to go along with said musician."

He wiggles his dark eyebrows just dangerously enough for her to realize his intent; he's going to be hitting on her with everything he's got. Not that she wholly minds—because hell, he's good-looking, and probably her type—but she's here for Henry, not to flirt.

She flicks her eyes off, resisting the urge to roll them at the compliment. Boy, the guy is slick. "The harmonica, really? Couldn't spring for a guitar?"

His smile slips, but only for a moment, so quick she almost misses it. He holds up his left hand—and she realizes its not a hand at all, but a gloved prosthetic. "Bit hard to find a one-handed guitar this north of Deliverance, don't you think, love?"

Well, now she feels bad. "What happened?" She asks before she can help herself. _Ugh, Emma, get a grip_, she thinks, _how rude are you?_

His tongue bats against his cheek, considering his words. "Can't say I recall. Had the injury long as I can remember, s'pose. Think it had something to do with a wood-chipper," he says finally, shrugging his shoulders.

Emma's eyebrows fly up, not sure if he's teasing her or if he genuinely doesn't remember. That's the kind of thing that would be hard to forget—or maybe he's been drinking the Mayor's Kool-Aid too. Why is it always the hot ones?

She scans his face searchingly, looking for the lie, but it's not there. He seriously doesn't remember how he lost a whole hand? What is it with this town?

"Speaking of things I can't recall, yours is a face I daresay has never crossed my path before. And I assure you, I wouldn't forget _you_, lass," he goes on to add, eying her shamelessly.

"Yeah, well, thanks for the spoiler, Shakespeare, but today's only my second day in town," Emma replies, folding her arms.

She can already tell this guy is gonna be one hell of a distraction, which means she'd better duck out now and get herself back to the diner. She's here for Henry, she reminds herself again, not flirtatious street musicians, no matter how handsome they are. "I'm keeping an eye on someone, you could say."

"I know the feeling," he replies lowly, his implication clear as his gaze burns into hers, intense and hot on her skin. He's still hitting on her, but there's a vein of something else underneath his words, a darker thought, a suppressed rage. She shudders, the feeling striking a bit too close to home. "You're Henry's mother, aren't you? Emma Swan?" At her look, he adds, "Word travels fast."

"I'm his birth mother, yeah," Emma answers after a beat. "Just making sure he's okay."

His smile turns wistful, maybe even pitying. "Good news for me, then," he says, finally, in an unreadable voice.

Emma arches a brow. "How's that?"

"The poor lad is miserable," he replies softly, squinting up at her. "Son of a witch, you might say. But—the bright spot is that you'll be sticking around for me to find you again."

She frowns; another person confirming her suspicions of Regina. This isn't good. She's getting in way too deep. Emma flicks her gaze back to him. "And what makes you think that?"

"You're an open book, Swan."

"Am I?"

"Oh, quite. You don't want to abandon him the way you were abandoned," he replies simply, as if such revelations were common knowledge.

Her stomach drops at that, suddenly wondering who the hell this man is. To Emma's credit, she keeps her face impassive despite the storm raging in her gut. "Was I?"

"I know an orphan when I see one," comes his eventual reply, his eyes unfocused.

His tone implies he doesn't wish to elaborate, which Emma appreciates, since that would be opening a whole other can of worms. Besides, she doesn't know how she feels about supposedly being an open-book. Especially since every man she's known has told her the exact opposite.

"On that note," Emma murmurs awkwardly, stepping back, "I should get going."

He stands, a pout hovering over his lips. "Will I see you again?"

Emma walks backwards, still facing him. She smirks. "I don't even know your name, buddy," she calls.

"Peter! Peter James!" He bellows back playfully, his grin gleaming, even from a distance. "Don't worry, love! I'll find you!"

* * *

**reviews always appreciated! (and they're encouraging for faster updates...) :)**


	16. the love boat

**prompt: Emma is confessing to Snow that she might have feelings for Killian and he happens to overhear it. **

**I approached this kinda loosely, but I thought it felt more natural!**

* * *

"So, are we going to talk about it?" It's the voice of Snow—or Mary Margaret, he supposes—filtering through the trees.

"Talk about what?" Emma' returns after a moment, sounding annoyed. His lips twitch, turning his neck in the direction of their voices; they must not know he stands nearby, filling a satchel with berries.

This was only their second day in Neverland, but it had quickly become clear that the lot of them couldn't agree on anything, even when it came down to meal preparations.

Regina had wanted to use magic, but Gold surprisingly argued against such, warning of the price of magic no matter the size of its use. The rest of the group agreed, to Regina's chagrin, and decided to take turns to go foraging.

Emma and Mary Margaret volunteered to take the first round, and Hook, the only one familiar with the fruits and plants of the island, agreed to go along, despite being decidedly frustrated with having been reduced to a berry-picker.

Still, though he wouldn't admit it, it did feel nice to be given a job to do. Even if it was only differentiating between which fruits would cause a rash, which would kill you, which would try to eat you itself, or the few that were actually edible.

The two women split off once Hook had determined the area secure, deciding on setting traps and luring animals in rather than trekking for miles. But he'd been following a patch of berries that had taken him in a full loop and now he is back where he started, listening to the two women prattle on with interest.

"Talk about—can you hold this for a second? Thanks," Mary Margaret continues, followed by the sound of grunting and the twisting of rope. Her voice lowers, but not enough that he can't hear her. "Talk about…Hook."

Well, if his attention hadn't been piqued before, it certainly is now.

"There's nothing to talk about," comes Emma's reply, after a noticeable pause. His heart slams wildly at that, and he stares down at his chest in surprise, possibly as if to scold it.

He already knows what Emma thinks of him, he should go before—_Oh, hell_, he thinks to himself, grabbing a nearby branch and hoisting himself up as quietly as he can. He shimmies across the bark until he's angled above the two women, fiddling with their makeshift animal traps.

"That was interesting, back at the docks, is all I'm saying," Mary Margaret presses, tilting her head. Emma doesn't say anything, but she does look off, breaking the gaze of her mother. "Especially given the last conversation you two had. In Rumplestiltskin's jail cell, I mean."

Hook almost gives himself away with a laugh. He had been so inexplicably pissed that day; he distinctly remembers being angry with _himself_ for not being angry with _her_. At least with Cora or Regina, he always knew why he was angry. With Emma, he never understands anything. Maybe it's because he understands her a little too well.

"Yeah, well, people change. Or subjects do. Can we move on?"

"I'm just asking if you trust him," Mary Margaret says eventually, her voice careful.

Emma looks to her mother at that, eyebrows high on her forehead. "Yeah, I do. Don't you?"

His chest swells at that, a smile digging deep into his cheeks. He can't recall the last time he's been truly trusted.

"Not really," Mary Margaret replies slowly. "Emma, honey, he's a _pirate_."

"And I've been to prison. People don't change unless you give them the chance to." Emma's hands fly to her hips. "I didn't, until you and Henry. Besides…you know, this is kind of rich, coming from you."

Hook's eyebrows are so raised they nearly reach his forehead—Emma Swan, defending his honor. Not that she ever would if she knew he was listening.

Mary Margaret looks up from the trap she's nearly finished securing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"How many second chances have you given _Regina_?"

She sighs. "That's different."

Emma snorts, folding her arms as her mother stands, dusting off her hands. "Yeah, how?"

"When I first met Regina, she was different. She was happy, kind, generous…I know, underneath it all, that girl lives," Mary Margaret replies wistfully.

Emma is silent for a long while, her hands sliding up her arms as she considers her words. Hook wonders if she's cold; he should've warned them that the temperature in Neverland is finicky. "The Hook I met is different, too, Mom," Emma replies quietly. "On the beanstalk, I mean. He's in there. I don't know, I can't explain it. But I do know that he gave up trying to kill Gold to help us find Henry. We didn't even _ask_ him to. That's…worth my trust."

Hook swallows, his chest tightening. Somehow, that's simultaneously the most painful and the happiest thing he's heard in nearly three centuries. Mary Margaret arches her neck, eying her daughter. "This wouldn't have anything to do with—no, nevermind."

"Have to do with what?" Emma snaps, suddenly sounding irritable.

"I said nevermind, honey," Mary Margaret says. Emma's frown only deepens as she paces the jungle floor. "Well, just…the way you two look at each other. It…worries your father. And me."

Emma nearly trips at that, her neck whipping around so fast Hook thinks he hears it crack. His chest still aches, but a satisfied smile is tugging at his lips. "The way we—_come on_. This isn't 'The Love Boat', okay?"

Mary Margaret emits an indiscriminate noise, nodding to herself. "I don't have feelings for him," Emma adds a moment later, sounding cross.

"I didn't say that you did."

"You might as well have," Emma grumbles. "We should go, no animal is going to walk into our snares with us arguing around it."

Mary Margaret looks as though she wants to say something, but as if thinking better of it, closes her mouth and nods, scooping up her bow and arrow sling. The two women slip off, leaving Hook up on the branch, alone.

He lets out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, leaning back into the tree. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to steady his racing heart as he processes what he's just heard. Emma Swan, defending him to her own mother, who thinks they look at each other in a _certain_ way, a dangerous way.

A smile curls up his lips, he laughs quietly to himself, almost deliriously. Somewhere not far overhead, a bird takes flight.

* * *

Later, over dinner, he catches Emma's eye as he passes the bushel of berries across the table to her. He smiles, and she raises an eyebrow.

"What?" She asks suspiciously.

"Yes, darling?" He replies coyly.

She licks her lips, narrowing her eyes. "You've been acting weird since we got back from the island."

His grin grows, though she didn't think it was possible. "Have I?"

"You're looking at me funny," Emma hisses, lowering her voice. "You keep smiling. What gives?"

"Swan, you're not telling me you don't like the way I _look_ at you, are you?" He replies just as lowly. Emma freezes, her hand hovering over her fork, mouth falling open.

"What did you say?" She whispers, leaning in closer across the table, as if suddenly afraid he'd heard her and her mother speaking. She glances to her parents, but they're engaged in their own conversation, speaking in hushed tones. Next to them, Regina rolls a stray berry around on her plate, looking bored, while Gold, supposedly not hungry, stands off on the railing, his eyes on the shore.

"I can't recall," Hook quips, eyes widening in mock surprise. "I had a _feeling_ it was important, though."

Emma opens her mouth and quickly closes it, her eyes turning to slits. "Shut up," she says finally, dropping her napkin onto her plate and standing up abruptly. He follows in suit, and the sound of their makeshift cargo-box-chairs scooting back against the deck attracts the attention of the others.

The two stand, faced off, as if waiting for the the hat to drop, breathing hard.

"Emma?" Her father tests, his tone hesitant. He flicks his gaze between the two, his lips curling.

A second too late, Emma shakes her head as if broken from a trance, and looks to her father. "It's fine," she says finally. "I'm going to bed." And then, right as Hook's mouth opens on cue, a joke poised on his tongue, she snaps her eyes back to him, a finger jabbed in his direction. "And you save it, buster."

With that, she spins around, her hair flying wildly after her as she storms off, her stomping down the stairs below deck echoing up. Mary Margaret and David exchange nervous glances, but Regina only dabs her napkin to her lips, eyebrows raised with amusement.

They all watch her go, and a moment later, Hook too turns on his heel and crosses the deck, marching up to the helm with the grin that stays with him well into his later slumber. That night, for the first time in years, he sleeps soundly.


	17. the kitchen boy

**Prompt: No Curse!AU. Enchanted Forest. Killian works as a guard for the Charming family. Princess Emma makes his life a living hell (and he loves it.)**

**I approached this one loosely, and I am going really _really_ AU with it. No regrets.  
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* * *

When Emma is seven, a young boy is brought to the castle.

He shuffles in quietly behind a group of prisoners—_pirates_, she thinks she hears the guards whisper excitedly—his hands tucked behind his back, a fierce expression etched into his little face.

Emma hides behind an empty suit of armor as she watches her parents give individual sentencing. Most get imprisonment, though a few younger men are merely banished. When they get to the boy, who can't be much older than she is, her mother lets out a small gasp.

His face caked with dirt and sea salt, his black hair is scruffy and sticking out in all possible directions, and his dark eyebrows are knotted deeply into his forehead.

Her parents exchange glances. The boy stands proudly, never breaking eye contact with her father, but his lip quivers, just slightly.

"Hello, boy," her mother says finally, her voice soft.

"Give me my sentence," the boy bellows back. Emma's eyes widen; _no one_ yells at her mother. Not necessarily out of fear of doing so, but because Snow White is so beloved by all. "I can take it!"

Rather than angry, Snow only looks bemused. "What's your name, honey?"

This gives the boy pause. He finally tears his gaze away from her father, looking at Snow with wide eyes. Even from where she hides, Emma is surprised at how bright they are, blue as forget-me-nots, her favorite flower. "K-Killian Jones," he says slowly, his voice guarded.

"That's a lovely name, isn't it, Charming?" Snow turns to her husband, smile growing. Her father returns the smile, a knowing look passing over his face.

"Where are your parents?" He asks.

The boy—Killian—drops his eyes to the floor and presses his lips together. A guard leans into Snow's ear and whispers an answer, which she passes along to Charming. Emma strains her ears to hear, but she can't make out what they're saying.

The armor makes a slight rattle as she presses into it, and Killian's eyes dart over, landing on her instantly. The ghost of a smirk flashes over his face, which he quickly clears as her parents bring their attention back to him.

"Guards," Snow calls suddenly, and Emma's little heart slams against her chest. Killian glances to her with a worried look, or maybe even a silent plea. "Would you kindly take young Killian to the kitchens? See to it that he has his fill. And please tell Johanna that I found the extra set of hands she's been asking for, would you?"

Confusion sweeps over Killian's face, his mouth dropping and eyes narrowing. The guards shuffle up behind him, ready to lead him away, when Snow's hand darts up, signaling pause.

"That is," Snow adds, eying him carefully, "if Killian wants the job. You always have a choice; you're free to go, sweetie, but if you stay, you have a home with us."

Killian runs his tongue along his teeth, inclining his head with thought, exchanging looks with Emma out of the corner of his eye. He flicks his gaze back onto her parents, and without saying a word, turns to face the guards, nodding. One of the men places a hand on his shoulder and leads him off.

As they round the corner, just before they disappear from sight, he glances over his shoulder at Emma, a smirk full on his mouth.

She's relieved to see him look pleased, but has a feeling that she hasn't seen the last of that smug little smile.

* * *

When Emma is fourteen, she has to learn how to dance.

Somehow, he always picks the worst times to come barging in, and this instance in particular will have her cringing out of embarrassment later that night. Killian knocks at the door but doesn't get it open more than a crack before she cries out in protest. But he doesn't listen, and barrels on through anyway. When Killian's eyes land on her, he nearly drops the tray of food he carries, doubling over with laughter.

"Shut up," she hisses, her face burning. The books balanced on her head drop to the floor a moment later, to which he only laughs harder. "What if I had been indecent, or something? You can't just waltz in here—"

"Oi," he clucks, finally catching his breath, "my apologies, Princess. But I figured you wouldn't be undressing for lunch. Then again, I know nothing of propriety, so perhaps its fashionable to dine in undergarments."

Emma rolls her eyes, striding to him and plucking a pear from the tray. "You're hilarious," she says dryly, biting into the fruit.

He eyes the books, now splayed on the floor. "They have _bags_ for carrying books, you know. Or better yet," he adds, eyes widening, "hands for it too, if it the situation is _truly_ dire."

"I have to learn how to walk proper, or something, before I can master this dance style," Emma glowers, deflating into a nearby armchair. "My first ball is coming up, and Mother is nearly pissing herself with excitement."

Killian smirks down at her. He is now a full head taller than she is (and loves to remind her of that), and, at age sixteen, he is probably due for a promotion soon. The way he's growing, the title of "kitchen _boy_" will soon no longer fit.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, darling, but proper princesses don't say 'piss' either."

"Yeah well, I ain't proper," Emma snaps back, sighing as she eyes the books on the floor. She takes another bite of her pear, not bothering to swallow before she speaks. "And I'll never get the hang of the footwork anyway. I'm too clumsy."

She expects him to make a crack at her, unprepared for the soft smile that lingers on his lips. "You're too hard on yourself, love," he says, leaning against a table with his arms folded.

"I'm not, I'm just…self-aware."

He eyes her dubiously. "I doubt that very much, Emma." Before she can ask what he means, however, he swiftly crosses the room, plucking one of the swords from the walls. Juggling it from hand to hand for a moment, he drops into a fighting stance, the blade tipped in her direction.

"You know milady, sword-fighting is much like dancing," Killian says, shuffling his feet as he spars an invisible opponent. "It's all in the feet, knowing where your partner will step, what move they plan to make. You're more than a fair fighter, Emma."

"I'm a decent archer, sure, I've got good aim—but I've never really gotten a handle on swords," Emma replies, pressing her chin into her palm. She ignores the way his eyes spark at that, knowing he has an inappropriate joke he'd like to share. But he holds his tongue. "Or dancing. Guess now I know why."

"Well, why don't I teach you?"

Her heart skips at that, and they lock eyes. "Teach me to dance?"

Killian's eyes widen. "I meant sword fight, Princess," he says, his voice tight.

"Oh, right. Of course." _Stupid. _Her parents may have some protest, because it's hardly formal, but then again, so is she. They'll probably prefer she get a master for a teacher, but Emma trusts Killian more than she does some fancy stranger. "Okay," she agrees, wondering why she feels so breathless at the thought of dancing with him. It's just Killian, after all, the boy she's known half her life.

"Tomorrow, then, in the gardens?" He asks, blue eyes scanning her face.

"Tomorrow."

_It's just Killian_, she repeats to her hammering heart. _Just Killian_.

* * *

When Emma is fifteen, she realizes something about _just Killian_.

Princess Alexandra, the daughter of her mother's good friend Queen Ella, is over for a visit. And even if sometimes Alexandra and Emma disagree on a few key points—such as what makes a good story, how to dress, or what's fun to do on a visit to town, to name a few—Emma still considers Alexandra to be close, if not because she's her only female friend.

"What do you think?" Emma asks, splaying her arms out and giving a spin.

Alexandra wrinkles her nose. "Trousers, Emma? You can't wear _those_ to the ball."

"They're dress pants," Emma argues, in a defeated voice. She should've known what Alexandra would say; she should've just asked Killian. "My mother even approved. I thought it would be…I dunno, bold."

"Suppose," Alexandra sighs.

A knock sounds at the door, quickly followed by Killian, carrying in a tray of tea. He sets it down, and when he sees Alexandra beaming at him, he gives her a flourishingly dramatic bow. "Majesties," he says, his voice suddenly very deep.

Emma raises an eyebrow, narrowing her eyes. "Thank you Killian," she says sharply. He glances to her, a smirk dancing across his lips. Her gaze tells him very firmly she wants him to leave, which he does eventually, but not before flicking his gaze between the two princesses with a growing grin.

"Well," Alexandra says once Killian has shut the door behind him, relaxing into her lounging chair. "I can't believe _that's_ Killian."

Bent over the teacup and pouring herself a glass, Emma looks over at Alexandra with a confused grimace. "What do you mean?"

"The last time I saw him, he was a skinny thing with absurdly knocked knees and ridiculously pointed ears," Alexandra clarifies, glancing to the door as if expecting him to walk back through it.

"His ears are still pointed," Emma mumbles, unsure why her stomach has just tightened.

"But _now_…" Alexandra trails off, smiling to herself. She glances back to Emma. "He's all grown up. He's very handsome, you know."

"I hadn't noticed." That was a lie. She had.

Alexandra pauses, twirling a strand of dirty blonde hair around her finger. "Shame, though. Those kind of looks are wasted on servants."

"Alexandra!"

"I'm sure he'll make some young kitchen maid very happy, Emma," Alexandra says curtly, "but he's not husband material, or anything."

"Aren't you kind of young to be thinking about that?" Emma huffs, which is all she can do not to punch her friend clean on the jaw.

"Hardly, my mother was only three years older than me when she was married," Alexandra replies, pretending not to notice the way Emma's fists are clenched.

"Your mother, _the servant_," Emma points out, rolling her eyes.

Alexandra considers this, glancing back to the door once more. "That's true…" She stands suddenly, smoothing over her blue skirt. "You know, I think I'm suddenly quite famished. I'm going to fetch something from the kitchens. Do you want anything?"

_Besides your head?_ "No, I'm fine."

Emma watches her friend prance off and feels her stomach clench even more. She even feels a little dizzy at the thought of Alexandra flirting with Killian. She's seen both of them in action before, and that thought pains her. Killian and Alexandra are the two most charming people she knows—together, they'd be unstoppable.

She has the urge to run after her friend or at least take the shortcut to the kitchens and beat her to Killian, but she stops herself, feeling silly. Killian has never pretended to much like Alexandra, and besides, why does she feel so worried, anyway? It's not like she has any _claim_ over him.

It's not like she spends hours awake at night, going over the footwork they practice every other morning, or like she ever wants to reach out and smooth out the creases that appear in his forehead whenever he glances out at the bay below the castle. It isn't like she feels the blood rush to her heart every time he wiggles one of those ridiculously dark eyebrows her way.

No. It isn't. Because he is _just Killian_.

But he is _her_ just Killian, she realizes a moment later.

And she _does_ spend more time than she feels comfortable admitting thinking about his eyes and the way he frowns when he thinks she's not looking. She _does_ lie awake at night, wishing he'd one day teach her how to dance, too.

"Oh no," Emma exhales shakily, dropping onto a chair and burying her face in her hands. "Oh no, no."

* * *

After Alexandra leaves, Emma retires early, claiming she's not feeling well. Mostly, she doesn't want to face Killian, but she omits that information when she explains to her mother that she wants to miss dinner.

However, not long after Emma speaks to Snow, a knock sounds at the door. Expecting it to be one of her parents, Emma rests her book against her chest. "Come in," she calls from her bed, her legs propped up against the wall.

Her stomach drops when she sees its Killian, carrying a bowl of hot soup. "Your mother sent me up with some broth," he explains, gently placing it down on her bedside table.

"Okay," Emma says coolly, refusing to maintain eye contact. She picks up her book and proceeds to ignore him.

"Okay," Killian echoes slowly, wrinkling his nose. "You're not feeling well, eh?" He adds a moment later, sounding disbelieving.

"That's right."

"You look peachy, darling. What's really going on?"

Emma sits up at that, the truth poised on her lips. Instead, she says, "Nothing. I have a stomach ache."

Killian pulls up a nearby chair, draping himself over it casually. She notes how at home he always makes himself; she's never even thought of him as a servant until Alexandra pointed out he actually was one. Her parents have always been especially kind to and comfortable with Killian; sometimes, he even teasingly baits her father or he tries to flirt with her mother. Like Johanna, he's practically part of the family. _Not_ like he's her brother, or anything, she adds to herself.

"I think I know you a little better than that, love," he chuckles. "Try again."

"It was just something Alexandra said," Emma replies finally, collapsing back down onto the bed. Well, it's not a lie.

A knowing smile passes over her friend's face. "Ah, Alexandra. Here I thought you two were best friends?"

Emma gives him a pointed look. "You're my best friend," she says flatly, before she can think twice about it.

He pauses, and she thinks she sees the tips of his ears redden. "What did she say? Not speaking ill of me with my back turned, I should hope."

She was of course, and they both know it, but admitting it would be ruining the game. Emma only grins. "You wish."

Killian sighs dramatically, tipping back in his chair and folding his arms behind his neck. "She and I had quite a chat this afternoon," he says slowly, glancing at Emma out of the corner of his eye.

Emma tries not to frown. "And?"

"Well, she told me an interesting story. One of her mother, actually—a servant girl who wished to change her life. She whisked herself off to a ball and fell in love with a prince, with whom she lived happily ever after. Bit unrealistic for most of us, and I think she may have shared the story in an attempt to woo me, but it at least _sounded_ like a lovely tale."

"The truth is a little more gruesome," Emma glowers. "Queen Ella nearly had to sell her baby—Alexandra, to be exact—to keep her crown. She almost lost everything."

Killian's eyes darken suddenly, the air between them changing and charging. "Yes, well," he says lowly, "the things we risk for love."

* * *

When Emma is sixteen, she has her first suitor.

The son of Queen Abigail and King Frederick, Prince Gabriel has his mother's golden hair and his father's long, handsome face. He's Emma's age, and she wonders if she's quite possibly the first girl he's ever spoken to. She's seen him at balls before, hovering around a banquet table and never quite looking willing to dance, which she of course related to.

Yet at every ball that her parents throw, Emma finds herself on the dance floor, sweeping around even gracefully, if only to prove to Killian that she's been paying attention to his lessons. And maybe, _just maybe_, to gauge his reaction of her in the arms of potential suitors.

As he works in the kitchens, he often is a server at the massive parties in her castle, standing just beyond the crowd, looking uncomfortable (but handsome, always handsome) in his lavish uniform. He always finds her eye as she passes from partner to partner, bowing and twirling, an amused smile tight across his features. He then, as if on cue, later teases her about dresses or critiques her form, and she just spits right back a jab about the puffy-sleeved purple tunic he is forced to wear. It's a game they're both intent on winning.

"Oh, I just remembered!" Snow declares as she turns to Abigail and Frederick, bringing Emma's thoughts back to the present. "There's a new rose blooming in the south garden that you two simply _must_ see. Charming, shall we show them?"

A small smile curves up Abigail's lips as she and her husband set down their teacups. "Sounds lovely. Gabriel, why don't you keep Princess Emma entertained while we investigate this mysterious flower?"

Emma opens her mouth in protest, which Snow silences with a tight smile. Her mother ushers the other couple out, and after a moment of prodding, her father also stands, though he doesn't look too happy about it. _Traitor_, Emma mouths to him, to which he shrugs his shoulders helplessly.

Suddenly, they are alone. Standing off to the side, Gabriel runs his fingers along an elaborately carved table, cursing when his hands stumble over a porcelain vase. It clangs as it falls over, but doesn't break, though Gabriel acts as if it does, stammering an apology and looking as though he wants to curl into the fetal position. Emma snorts, amused and even endeared despite herself.

"Relax," she says finally, plopping herself into a chair. She's still in her riding clothes, and hadn't felt like changing even though her mother had warned her they'd have company that day. She just prefers the way the pants fit rather than one of her stuffy dresses. "I'm not going to attack you."

"I know," Gabriel snaps, flushing. "I'm sorry. Sorry. This is just…"

"It's stupid," Emma finishes for him with a dismissive wave. "The whole matchmaking thing, I mean. They're not even trying to be subtle about it."

A look of relief floods over the prince's face as he crosses the room, taking the seat next to her. He leans in, about to add something when the parlor door swings open. Killian enters backwards, swirling around as he balances two trays of cakes with practiced ease. He stops mid-hum as his eyes fall on the two, leaning in closely together, a furrow developing in his brow.

After a brief pause, he marches forward, slamming the first tray down so hard it rattles. He lets it noisily shake for a moment, glaring at Emma, before reaching out and steadying it as he places the second tray down more gingerly. "Tiny sandwiches for the lady," he says gruffly. "And her guest."

Gabriel's eyes widen at Killian's tone, terse and borderline threatening. Clearly, he's not used to being spoken to that way. Killian's eyes burn into Gabriel's, only breaking contact when Emma calls his name. "Killian," she says acidly. Why the hell is he acting so rudely? "That'll be all. Leave us, please."

"Certainly, highness," he replies just as coldly, turning on his heel and slamming the door behind him.

"Well," Gabriel says finally, still looking windswept. "Forgive me if I overstep, but I daresay you may need a new kitchen boy."

Emma's irritation quickly fades into confusion as she stares after the door. She doesn't say anything; she's seen him frustrated, she's seen him annoyed, but she's never seen him quite…angry. For the life of her, she doesn't know why. But it worries her.

* * *

"You wanna tell me what the hell that was about?" Emma asks later, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen. An older cook glances up from her work, and with a curt smile from the princess, quickly takes her leave so that Emma and Killian are alone.

He doesn't look up, continuing to knead into the dough before him, harder than before.

Emma's frown deepens. "Are you mad at me?"

At that, Killian glances up, a flicker of surprise on his features. "Not at all. Why would you think that, milady?"

Emma takes a hesitant step forward, spreading her palms onto the countertop. She raises an eyebrow. "Well, I meant, earlier…with Gabriel—"

Killian snorts dismissively. "That had nothing to do with the pretty prince, love," he says as he aggressively beats the dough.

He's lying, despite the fact that he knows Emma can always tell. Her stomach flips. It's not like she's been hoping he is _jealous_, or anything (well, only a little bit). But Emma has always been able to read Killian—much in the way he can with her—so she knows something else is eating at him, something much more than petty envy.

"So what is it?"

He stays silent, eyes on his hands at work. Emma watches him for a moment before placing her own hand over his, forcing him to look at her. "Let's go take a walk." After a moment of hesitation, Killian nods, removes his dirtied apron, and lets her lead him out of the kitchen.

When they are in the gardens, Emma finally drops his hand. She tries not to think about the way she misses holding it. "Shoot," she says quietly, tucking her arms behind her.

"You haven't given me a bow."

"_Killian_."

He sighs, the grin dropping from his face. He should've known better than to try diversion tactics. "I've just been thinking about things," he says finally, inclining his head to her.

"Well that clears it up," Emma snorts.

"Seeing you with…the prince made me realize something, Emma," he says, causing Emma nearly to stumble. She whips her head around, eyes wide. "About my future, I mean. I don't want to be a kitchen boy forever."

_Oh. Wait, what?_ "Well, you're about to be a kitchen _man_. Don't you have a birthday coming up soon?"

Killian smiles to himself, but it's not a happy one. "Me eighteenth."

The weight of the number settles over them like a thick blanket on a hot day. Emma's stomach drops, and the urge to seize his hand again is almost irresistible. _Almost_. "You're thinking about leaving," she says, struggling to keep her heart and voice impassive.

Killian abruptly stops walking, plopping onto a nearby fountain's edge. "Aye," he agrees quietly. He squints up at her. "My place is not in the bloody kitchen, love."

"You miss the sea," Emma says slowly, sighing knowingly.

She understands, because she knows what it feels like to be caged. She has liberty to traipse the kingdom, but never alone, always guarded, and there's a limit to her freedom. Sometimes, when she's walking in a crowd, at a party, or even passing through a market, she has the ridiculous urge to just start running, if only to see how far she can go.

"You're not going to find your father if you go," Emma adds before she can help herself, shocked at herself for saying such a thing. She of course _wants_ him to find his father, a man he occasionally spoke of, usually fondly, wistfully—but she doesn't want him to leave her to do it. It's selfish, but it's the truth.

"You don't know that," Killian growls, standing with his fists clenched.

"He _left you_, Killian. On a damn pirate ship that was nearly sunk not two days later! This is your home. Here. With us." _With me_.

His eyes soften as they search her face, hearing the things she leaves unsaid. He opens his mouth with a reply, but closes it as they hear someone calling Emma's name. Killian's face tightens, and he gives her a curt bow, turning on his heel. She watches him go.

* * *

Ten days later, after Prince Gabriel and his parents visit one more time, Killian asks for an audience with her mother and father. The next day, on his eighteenth birthday, he boards a ship in the royal navy.

He almost leaves without saying goodbye, because he doesn't want to make it more painful for her, but he is selfish, so he wakes her an hour before he departs. She's groggy, but she knew this was coming, and insists on walking him to the docks.

Feeling bold, she takes his arm and wraps herself around it as they cross the castle bridge. He stiffens at first, wondering if she's trying to make his leave harder. They walk quietly, afraid of what they both want to say.

The sun is slowly inching up the horizon by the time they get to the docks. Other families have gathered to see sailors off, but it's early, so the crowd is sparse. He turns his back to the sun, squinting down at her. He opens his mouth, then closes it, unsure of the words.

"It's okay. I know why you're doing this," Emma sighs, staring at his hands. She wants to take them in her own.

"I don't think you do, Emma," Killian replies finally, in an unreadable voice.

"You're looking for your father," Emma says, but he only shakes his head.

"I don't remember much of him, but he did leave me with one parting piece of wisdom, love—he told me a man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets." Killian's gaze has turned intense, hot on her skin.

Her nose wrinkles. "I don't get it. What does that have to do with you leaving?"

"I hope to explain it to you one day," he says, taking her hand.

"That's bull. Tell me now." He chuckles at that, already sounding wistful.

He sobers suddenly, as the other sailors walk past them, the rest of the families starting to dissipate. Killian doesn't know what to say, so he opts to lean in, and Emma catches the kiss that was intended for her cheek instead on her lips, throwing her arms around his neck. He freezes, hesitating only for a moment before returning the kiss, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

"What was that?" He breathes finally, resting his forehead to hers.

"Something to remember me by, I suppose," Emma smirks, glad he looks just as bowled over as she does.

He grins, eying her lips. "You suppose."

"Well, here," Emma adds, trying to calm her heart as she reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a small blue box. "Your birthday present."

Smirking, he gingerly accepts it. The grin, however, drops from his face, replaced by shock, as he opens the box. "It's a compass," he says, his voice just above a whisper.

She smiles wryly. "Good to see you've still got your vision, old man. You'll need that on the seas," she quips. He glares at her briefly, but can't keep his eyes off the compass for long. It's a small piece of dark walnut wood with a delicate swan carved into the roof of it; its golden arrow rests just atop a small but brilliant green stone, one he can't help but feel he's seen before. "Is that—"

"From my mother's ring, yeah," Emma finishes for him, flushing wildly. "She gave it to me last year. Said something sappy about it following love wherever it went. I thought that was fitting for a compass, you know?"

A strange look takes over his face, perhaps like he's simultaneously the happiest and the most pained he's ever been.

"Use it to find your way back home," Emma says quietly. _To me._

"Haven't you heard?" He smirks, digging his tongue into his cheeks, "I'll always find you."

Despite her wicked grin, she rolls her eyes; they both grew up hearing _that_ story ten times over. "Original." But she knows he will.

* * *

When Emma is twenty-two, a young man returns to the castle.

His eyes are gleaming and bright against his sea-tanned skin, his hair combed, a thick coat of scruff dancing along his jaw, looking inexplicably _right_ in his black leather sailor's uniform.

She catches him coming out of the war room, his coat draped over his arm. For a moment, she almost doesn't recognize him, her kitchen boy who returned a man. "Killian?" She breathes, half-expecting him to be a hallucination. God knows she's imagined him returning before, or yanked on the shoulders of dark-haired strangers, whipping them around, expecting them to be her _just Killian_, near tears when they never are.

But here he is.

He stops abruptly when he sees her, the coat dropping from his arm, looking as though all the air has just left his lungs. He rushes towards her, picking her up and spinning her around in a tight embrace. After a moment of hesitation, she relaxes into the hug, breathing in deeply.

"You're back," she whispers as he gently lowers her. Her feet are touching the ground, but she wouldn't think it from the way she feels. Suddenly, he grips her left hand, bringing it up to his face for inspection. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'd heard you'd gotten engaged," he hisses, relief flooding onto his features.

Her eyes narrow, finding herself angry despite the fact that she's overjoyed to have him back. No, not anger—fear. "Is that why you're here? To stop a wedding?"

"_Are you_?" Killian demands.

She lets him squirm for a moment, her face neutral, before sighing. "No, I'm not. Gabriel did propose, though. He told me you were never coming back." But she knew he would. Alexandra, who had a similar lack of faith in Killian, had encouraged her to accept the offer, advising that a match to Gabriel was smart and safe. Emma had only smiled, having long known she wanted nothing that resembled a smart or safe match.

Emma knew one couldn't appreciate the beauty of the sea without first experiencing the storm, after all.

"But you turned him down." He needs to hear her say it.

Emma nods, smiling at the way he exhales shakily, running a hand through his dark hair. She wants to kiss him, so badly, perhaps just to make sure he's still standing next to her. But she needs to know something, too. "You didn't answer my question."

He kicks at his heels, knowing he can't keep the lie from her. "It may have changed the tides a bit, yes," he replies sheepishly.

"So you're not back for me," Emma breathes, her chest tightening. Killian's neck snaps up at that, and he steps forward towards her, taking her arms in his hands.

"Did you not just hear me, love?"

"You came back to see if I was to be married, not to be with me," Emma says, wincing when he looks back to the floor. "You always said your heart was on the sea."

"Actually, no," Killian replies softly, an intense look turning over his features, "I've long realized my heart is kept ashore." Emma's expression softens, her heart melting. _Stupid kitchen boy_. He clucks his tongue, and shakes his head as if having a silent argument with himself. A moment later, he takes her hand in his and lacing their fingers together, leading her out of the hallway and towards the gardens. "Long ago, I told you what my father told me—"

"A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets, I know, blah blah," Emma interrupts, smirking. "Is this the part why you finally tell me why you left?"

He shoots her an annoyed, but warm, look. "It's hard to explain."

"Yeah well, I'm listening."

Killian stops suddenly, squinting, the sun in his eyes. "I've always loved you, but I didn't think I _deserved_ you, Emma." She opens her mouth in protest, which he quickly silences with a wave of his hand. "I wanted to fight for you, to prove to you, your parents, your kingdom, that I was. That I was more than a kitchen boy."

"You didn't need to prove that to me," Emma says quietly, having gone very still. "I always knew that."

"But _I_ didn't, Emma," Killian whispers back, catching her eye.

They are silent for a long while, eyes burning into one another. "You're still planning on going back to sea," she says finally.

"I have my eye on a captainship, milady."

She doesn't hesitate. "I'm coming with you."

"Emma—" He starts, but suddenly smirks, raking his eyes over her figure, from head to toe. There's no point in arguing with her, and he doesn't want to, anyway. He doesn't need a compass to tell him she is his heart, and his home.

* * *

When Emma is twenty-five, she marries the kitchen boy.

When Emma is twenty-eight, they have their first child—a son—nearly born on a lifeboat.

When Emma is thirty, they have their second—a girl, this time—who gives Killian more hell than she does.

When Emma is forty, she gives her son his father's compass, and tells him love will follow it wherever it goes. It does.

But that's a tale for another time.

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**Kind of an odd way to end, I know, but I didn't want to close it listing all the things that happened in Emma's life, because I didn't want to end with her death aha. But it was a happy life!**

**Anyway, I REALLY got carried away with this one-but I had fun. I hope it wasn't too OOC, but our two favorite orphans didn't really totally grow up orphans in this story, so. I'd love a review on this one, since it took damn near forever aha.**


	18. operation kraken

**Prompt: Henry finds out Captain Hook's real name and becomes convinced that his father was Davy Jones, and ropes Emma into helping him prove it, code names and all.**

* * *

"Kid. _Kid_."

His fingers still wrapped around the corner of the page, Henry finally glances up at Emma. She reaches across the counter, placing the slice of her mother's pie next to his book and clearing his emptied dinner plate. "What?" Henry murmurs, already ducking his head back down into the pages.

Emma raises an eyebrow. "You've had your nose in that book all night. Now it's trumping pie?"

"I'm just trying to figure something out," he mumbles distractedly, and Emma recognizes the determined look in his eye as one of her own.

She digs her elbows into the counter, narrowing her gaze. "Okay, maybe I can help. Spill."

He beams at her, causing Emma's heart to give a little flutter. Since coming back from Neverland, Henry hasn't quite been himself—he is usually distant if anything, but occasionally prone to bouts of skittish anxiety or sudden temper flares. He's started seeing Archie again, who confessed that Henry may be displaying mild symptoms of PTSD.

In the place where nobody ages, Henry was forced to grow up too fast.

But while Emma was at work, Mary Margaret reported that, after his session with Archie, Henry had rushed home, thrown off his shoes and backpack, and dove headfirst into his book of fairytales. He's been distracted ever since, seeming to have the light in his eyes that has been noticeably absent over the past few weeks.

"It has to do with Captain Hook," Henry starts, and Emma's eyes widen as her elbows slip out from under her. He casts her an impatient look before picking up the book and flipping it around, flashing her the text. Sure enough, a drawing of Hook, wearing a tormented expression and holding a magic bean, sits square in the center of the page.

"Um," Emma murmurs, brushing her hair behind her ears as she straightens. "What about him?"

"It was something Archie helped me remember about the day you found me—when Hook pulled me out of the sea."

The memories flash through Emma's mind—brandished swords, the clash of metal, the ocean's swell under the midnight moon, Henry tossed overboard, Hook diving in after him, Emma's heart nearly stopping—and she swallows, but keeps her face neutral, gesturing Henry on.

"I never told you this, but when Hook swam us ashore, I asked him why he was doing this. Last time I saw him, he'd stolen a magic bean, and I thought he was a villain."

"Fair enough," Emma concedes, recalling the time. He's been so different since then; she's almost forgotten he wasn't always so trusted. Hook has actually already told her this story, but she lets Henry go on.

"Actually, I said, 'But you're Captain Hook!'" Henry continues, grinning. "And he only said, 'I wasn't always.'...which got me thinking…"

"Killian," Emma says suddenly, the word spilling from her tongue before she can stop herself. "That's his name." She's rolled the name around in her head for weeks now, baiting herself, wondering what would happen should she let his real name slip. Inexplicably, that felt like swimming too far out to sea, without the ability to touch down should she need to.

Henry pauses, regarding her curiously. "Yeah, Killian Jones, that's what the book says." Henry furrows his brows slightly, looking back down at the book, "It also says that he used to be in love with dad's mom."

This is something Emma tries not to think about, actually. _Not_ for any particular reason though, she assures herself. "Yeah, well, your mom is also your step-great-grandmother, so you're not allowed to judge," Emma replies, smirking.

He holds up his hands defensively. "Hey, I'm not! Besides, I don't care about that—though it is kinda funny—it's his last name." Emma inclines her head towards him, wrinkling her nose. "_Jones_?" Henry emphasizes pressingly.

"So?"

Henry puts down the book, lacing his fingers over the pages. "_So_—doesn't that sound familiar?"

Emma wracks her brain. "No. Should it?"

"What about _Davey_ _Jones_?" Henry's voice drops to a whisper, despite the fact that they're alone.

She starts to laugh, when she realizes he's serious. "Henry. Come on." She squints at him. "I know that everyone in this town has an alternate fairytale identity, and sure, there's some crossovers—but I don't think he's both Captain Hook _and_ Davey Jones."

"That's not what I meant," Henry says, sounding impatient, "but what do we know about…his dad?"

"His father?" Emma echoes, wrapping her arms around herself, feeling an odd chill run across her skin. _An orphan's an orphan_, Hook's voice suddenly whispers in her thoughts.

An excited smile whips across his face. "Why not? The book only talks about what happened when he met Mr. Gold in the Enchanted Forest, not anything before then. But aren't you curious?"

_They all share the same look in their eyes. The look you get when you've been left alone._

She definitely is. But digging into Hook's past is a can of worms, and she doesn't know if she's ready to pick up the shovel. Things are rocky enough as it is with the pirate—having left things on a somewhat…_intimate_ note.

When she'd met up with Hook on the shore, after he'd rescued Henry from the sea, probably littered with hungry mermaids, she'd sort of tackled the two of them into a hug, dragging them down into the sand, her arms tight around Hook's waist, with Henry squeezed in between. She'd stayed like that longer than she feels comfortable admitting. And when they'd gotten back to Storybrooke with the stolen pixie dust, things were even stranger.

Hook keeps finding reasons to show up at the station, often claiming he needs a tutorial in anything ranging from canned fruit to radios to denim. It's a thinly veiled excuse to flirt with her, and they both know it, but she plays along, unwilling to send him away, even enjoying herself. He was even in the station this afternoon, having just learned what a snow globe is (where he got one in the first place remains to be fishy) and feeling the need to marvel at the notion with her.

Things are…different (the only word she'll allow herself to admit at the moment) now between the two of them, but she suspects they never were normal, anyway.

Her thoughts zoom back to Henry, regarding her expectantly. "I don't know, kid…"

"It'll be like old times! We can call it Operation Seagull."

Emma raises an eyebrow. "You've been naming your missions after venomous animals for a year and now you want to christen one after a bird?"

He shrugs, grinning. "It has to be ocean related, doesn't it?"

_This is trouble,_ Emma thinks, biting her lip. But Henry is looking at her with light in his eyes, sparked in a way she hasn't seen in ages. He's been so moody lately, but this is the first time he's shown any of his spirit since returning from Neverland.

She narrows her eyes, feeling a smirk tug at her lips. "Okay. How about Operation Kraken?"

"Operation Kraken. I like it " The look Henry gives her next is positively devious. "It's on."

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**First update in a while! I'm in Ireland, for those that don't know, with an internship, so I've been quite busy and haven't had the time to write! I was going to post this all in one, but since I haven't updated in a while and I'm kind of chugging along with this one shot, I decided to make it a two parter and give the first bit to you guys now. Next segment will be longer. :) **

**Stay tuned! Reviews encourage a faster update!**


	19. operation kraken: phase one

The next morning, a fully dressed Henry rushes down the stairs so quickly he nearly slips on the last step. Emma and Mary Margaret exchange amused glances as he haphazardly slides onto a kitchen stool, thumping his old storybook down loudly onto the countertop.

"Someone's up early," Mary Margaret notes, turning back around to attend to her pan of eggs, sizzling on the stove. Emma grins from behind her morning paper.

"I wanted to get an early start," Henry shrugs, lacing up a shoe.

_Oh crap_. Emma had nearly forgotten—or, okay, maybe blocked out—about the fact that she's signed up to dig into Hook's past. "Well, breakfast first," she grumbles, taking a strong gulp of her coffee.

"Yeah, yeah," comes Henry's distracted reply, his nose already in the book. Emma even has to clear her throat when the eggs are ready. Begrudgingly, he puts his book to the side so that Mary Margaret can slide a plate in front of him.

"So, what's on the agenda for Operation Kraken?" Emma asks. She raises an eyebrow, watching Henry shovel food into his mouth faster than he can possibly chew. She always forgets how…_dedicated_ he can be.

"Operation Kraken?" Mary Margaret echoes, glancing to Emma curiously. Her lips twitch, which she hides behind her coffee mug. "Are we going fishing?"

A grin tugs at Emma's mouth. "Actually—"

"Mom!" Henry snaps, flushing. He turns to his grandmother with a look that is barely apologetic. "Sorry, Gram, I'd tell you…but this is sensitive information. Strictly need-to-know-basis."

The dark-haired woman's lips form a silent 'o' as a knowing look passes over her face. Emma only shrugs, as if to say _what can you do._ And it's true—when Henry gets something in his head, there's no getting it out until he sees it all the way through. (As if she has to guess where he gets _that_ from.)

After breakfast, Mary Margaret makes a show of excusing herself, claiming she forgot she has plans to bring coffee to David at the station (it's Emma's day off), but not before casting Emma an unreadable glance, resting somewhere between suspicion and shrewd. Emma isn't particularly eager to guess which it is.

Henry waits a few moments after the front door is shut, regarding it patiently, before turning to Emma with a wicked grin. He flips open his book and pulls out a crudely drawn web chart that he's hidden within the pages. "Okay, I outlined the mission into three phases. Phase One: Test the Waters."

She snorts, realizing she should've seen that one coming. "Seriously?"

He shrugs. "I'm eleven. What do you expect?"

Emma pauses, pretending she isn't amused. This is going to be a long day. "How many puns do you have up your sleeve?"

Grinning, Henry only flips the chart around so that it's facing his mother. "As I was saying. Phase One…"

* * *

**PHASE ONE: TESTING THE WATERS**

"Henry, I really don't know about this," Emma hisses for what feels like the umpteenth time.

Crouched behind an empty crate, Henry only rolls his eyes and passes her a walkie-talkie. At the sight of them, a small smile worms its way onto her face as a wave of nostalgia washes over her. She slips it into her back pocket.

"You know what to do?" Curtly, Emma nods, absently wondering if her son was always so bossy. He then hands over the brown paper shopping bag at his feet.

_It's now or never_, Henry seems to be saying as his eyes fix expectantly on her. Emma stands abruptly, before she can question it, huffing as she straightens her shoulders.

She arches her back tensely, shooting one last fleeting look at her son, who responds with an eager thumbs up.

She doesn't know why she's so nervous. It's not like she doesn't see Hook on a nearly daily basis anyway—but usually _he_ comes to _her_, poking his head (or hook) around the station or breaking up the occasional argument when Hook tries to pay for something in doubloons (to which he's always quick to remind her that he needn't be trying to pay at all, if habit were to win out).

But she almost never visits his ship. Not since—_No, Emma_, she thinks, _concentrate_.

Hesitantly, she moves up the gangplank, tucking her hair behind her ears as she glances around the deck of the _Jolly Roger_. "Hook?" Emma calls in a quiet voice. She's sure Henry is watching her with another annoyed expression, mumbling something about her not even trying. She waits a moment for the pirate to materialize, and when he doesn't, she inclines her head out to the docks, where Henry hides, shrugging as if to say _well, I tried_.

Not wanting to give Hook a chance to show up, she quickly turns on her heel and smacks into something hard. _Something_ that all-too-familiarly smells of rum, spice, leather and salt.

"Going so soon?" comes the low, amused voice of the pirate. His hand is braced along her arm, steadying her.

Slowly, Emma raises her head, locking eyes with Hook. He grins down at her, his expression pleased, and for a moment, she is paralyzed, unable to remember why she is on his ship in the first place, let alone focusing on phase one of Operation Kraken.

"Um," she starts, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. "No, I uh—" Emma grips the paper bag in her hand tightly, bringing it up suddenly in front of their faces, effectively putting distance between the two. "Brought you something."

She dangles the bag expectantly. Hook leans back, eying her from around the side of the bag. After a moment of studying her, he clucks his tongue, gingerly taking it from her.

At that moment, Henry seizes an opportunity to cross the ship, moving as silent as a mouse. He flashes Emma an impish grin as he quickly makes his way to the lower stairwell, disappearing below deck.

His back to Henry, Hook drops his nose into the bag, glancing back up at Emma with his eyebrow halfway up his forehead. Dipping his hook down as he grips the bag with his good hand, he pulls out the cotton shirt and inspects it with open disdain. "Darling, this is a bit counterproductive. You're not supposed to be giving me _more_ clothing when—"

"_Hook_!" Knowing Henry is within earshot, Emma bristles, instantly regretting it. If he wasn't eying her suspiciously before, he certainly is _now_.

"Right," he deadpans, staring at her for a moment. He licks his lips, flicking his gaze back to the oatmeal-colored Henley shirt draped over his hook. "Well, while I appreciate a gift as much as the next man, I have to admit this is unexpected."

_The plan_, she tells herself_, focus on the plan_. Keep Hook distracted.

"They were my dad's," Emma says. She sweeps backwards in the direction of the wheel, lacing her hands behind her back, hoping he'll follow her. "He was throwing them out, and I thought—"

"Oh, that makes it all the bloody better," he sighs heavily, falling in step with Emma as she continues to make her way towards the helm. He actually does seem quite put out by the idea of wearing David's hand-me-downs, though she has a feeling this goes well beyond pride.

"Do you have a problem with the way I dress?" He smirks, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He watches her carefully, and no matter how casually he said it, Emma can't help but feel like there's a lot riding on her answer. She's offended him, but more than that, she's worried him, too. What he's really asking is if she has a problem with his past as a pirate.

She pauses, marching up the rest of the stairs, and leans against the railing so that he'll have to keep his back to the deck, where, with any luck, Henry can sneak back out undetected.

"No, I don't. I just thought you might want them," Emma continues, surprised at how soft her voice has gone, "because…you know, if you're planning on…sticking around…it might be nice to try to, you know, assimilate. I mean, if you want. Or if you're staying, I don't—I don't know. "

This seems to catch Hook off guard, his eyes widening slightly. He scratches the back of his neck, running his tongue along his teeth. "Oh," he says simply, glancing back down at the bag, resting on his hook. "I suppose I can take that into consideration."

From below deck, there is suddenly a thump, followed by the unmistakable clang of something metal falling to the floor.

Hook's ears twitch, eyes narrowing. Just as he is about to whip his neck around, without thinking, Emma's hand flies out and grips the pirate's arm tightly. "There's something else I wanted to talk to you about," she says before her brain can catch up to her mouth.

Slowly, Hook's eyes trail from Emma's hand, up her arm, to her neck, before finally falling on her face and meeting her gaze. He seems to catch the sense of urgency in her voice. An unreadable look passes over his features, and he nods intently. Emma has his full attention now, somehow knowing that Henry could knock over a whole set of cargo boxes and the pirate wouldn't blink.

"I was wondering," she begins, not knowing where she's going with this, her voice rattling, "if—" Hook swallows noticeably. "—you wanted to have dinner tonight. I mean," she hurries to add, "it's family night, so, you know, my parents and Henry would be there, but Henry's been, ah, asking after you anyway, and we never properly thanked you, so…"

_Dinner? Dinner?! You _had_ to invite him to dinner, _she thinks to herself, not even wanting to imagine what her father's reaction will be.

Usually the captain only ever makes her feel stronger, or bolder, but something about the way he's looking at her now, a way she chooses not to interpret, has her hair on edge and skin white hot.

"Henry's been asking after me?" Hook echoes, a soft smile appearing underneath the stubble. "How is the lad doing?"

"Better," Emma replies honestly. "He's found something to keep him…distracted." _Okay, that's an understatement_. "Is that a yes?"

"I'd be honored," he chuckles, as if that were obvious. He suddenly beams at her, sharing with her a smile so startling she actually feels her heart skip. This is the beanstalk and Neverland all over again.

At that moment, Henry nimbly hops across the deck, his backpack haphazardly slung over a shoulder. He's not moving his quietest, the floorboards creaking somewhat, but Hook doesn't seem to notice. It isn't until Henry is fully out of sight, ducking around the cannery, that Emma realizes she's still grasping his arm.

She releases it suddenly, her fingers feeling hot.

"Seven," she says, her face struggling to maintain neutral.

"Seven," Hook repeats, still grinning.

* * *

By the time Emma makes it back to her car, Henry is already in the passenger seat, drumming his fingers along the cover of his storybook impatiently. "How'd it go?" Emma asks as she slides into her seat, reaching around for her seatbelt.

"Okay," Henry sighs, seeming disappointed as he too buckles up. "Did you know Hook is kind of a neat freak?"

"Yeah," Emma laughs, having spent enough time on the man's ship to realize he could be rather fussy about its maintenance. She puts the bug in gear, turning out of the parking lot. "Did you find anything you were looking for?"

"Not really," Henry replies, his nose scrunched up in thought. "But I didn't really have a lot of time to look around. After I knocked over this globe-thingy I figured I'd better get out fast. I thought for sure he'd heard me. Good job keeping him distracted, though. What'd you say to him?"

Her cheeks burn a little. "Oh, yeah, kid, about that," Emma smiles sheepishly, "I invited him to dinner. Tonight. I kind of panicked."

Henry is silent for an agonizingly long moment, observing her curiously with a tilt of his head. Then, suddenly, his face breaks out into a wide smile. "That's genius! I can't believe I didn't think of that! It'll be a perfect time to employ phase two!"

_Oh god_. "Phase two?"

His grin is wild and proud. "Yep. Time to cast the bait."

_Of course._

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** I'm a little rusty so forgive me. I hope no one was too OOC...I know we all love tough, sassy Emma, but if we recall she isn't _always_ the smoothest caught off guard. But spunky Emma will be back next chapter. And so will flirty Killian. Operation Kraken has three phrases, and as Henry said, phase two is called "casting the bait." Heheheh. Reviews make for a faster update!**


	20. howl

**(inspired by a prompt in the tag, I rewrote an old drabble of mine. Very short, but I like it. Takes place 2x12)**

**the reason i didn't post this before was because i didn't want to break up the order of operation kraken, but i've written a few oneshots since then so i decided to hell with it. the part 3 of operation kraken IS coming, but after i get a few other muses off my chest.**

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The forest is howling, he notes numbly. His ribs are on fire and but he feels as cold as glass. Where the crocodile had held his cane moments before, a new bruise blooms on his neck.

He is alone.

It feels as though as soon as she had arrived at his side, she was gone again, running off at the sound of the wailing beasts. The canopy of the forest blinks white and red as his vision blurs. Another wave of pain washes over him, a lump rising in his throat. He should've known Emma planned to leave him here, to bleed out like a sodding fool; fit the pattern. Bloody lass had a knack for it leaving him high and dry, after all.

Then, suddenly, he hears her. His eyes fly open to see Emma leaning over him again, her golden hair almost a halo against the darkness of the forest. A rough, choked laugh escapes his lips at the thought of attempting to tell Emma Swan she looks angelic.

Emma blinks down at him again, either confused or amused. Nay, worried? He immediately dismisses the thought. Immobilized by the pain, his attempts to reach for her hair are paralyzed.

"I don't know why you keep laughing," she mutters under her breath before calling out loudly, "Okay, now him!"

Her voice is now an echo, his consciousness fading in and out.

Next he knows, Hook is being lifted and carried towards one of the metal contraptions, voices filtering through his ears. The words "broken" and "ribcage" and "stable" pass through his mind. Abruptly, he is thrust into a blindingly sterile white light, and his eyes shut instinctively.

What happens quite next, he can't be sure. An odd beeping sounds dazedly, he feels people moving around him, laying a blanket over him, strapping him down. A low rumbling and the swinging of a door fills his ears just before someone calls out once more.

"Wait! I'll ride with you." It is Emma's voice, unmistakably, but there's an edge to it. Panic, he realizes dimly. He doesn't feel so much pain anymore. He doesn't feel any, actually.

Rather, what he does feel like is _tired_, as if 300 years of festering wrath has finally caught up to him. Exhaustion hits like a cool breeze on a hot night, but he senses Emma's presence at his side, so he staves sleep off, if only for a moment.

He exhales, quietly, pretending to be unconscious as Emma's fingers ghost from his shoulders to his face. They graze the skin like the heart of a wild rabbit, darting from danger while looking for a home to hide in.

Perhaps he isn't alone, after all. At least, not for now—and that is enough.

By the time he truly does lose consciousness, Emma has tucked his hair behind his ear, shaking her head to herself in a mix of disbelief and an odd shock of pride. Bloody, beaten, and out cold—and the pirate is still smiling.


	21. go eat your jello

**again i hadn't posted this here yet because i didn't want to break up operation kraken, but...whatever. my take on the jello scene.**

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"Well, _you're_ quite real, aren't you?"

Maybe it's the low rumble in his throat or the gleam in his eye, but Emma's stomach gives a sharp kick. She swallows it down and flattens her expression, grabbing the pirate by the shoulder and none too gently swiveling him around.

_Stupid, flirty pirate_.

"Go," she grumbles, her voice coming out softer than she'd expected, "eat your jello."

Still holding onto the collar of his bathrobe—in the back of her mind, she realizes she'll never get over seeing _Captain Hook_ in a fluffy white bathrobe—she guides him down the hospital hallway.

"Where are we going, Swan?" He asks, eyebrow raised as he balances his wobbly plate of jello. "So eager to get me alone?"

"We're—you're going back to bed," she says, instantly cringing at her slip up. His lips curl up slowly, and to her surprise, even though she's handed him an innuendo on a silver platter, all he does is grin, as if genuinely pleased.

They round a corner and Emma releases him, shoving him through the doorway of his hospital room. She still can't believe he managed to get out of his cuffs, especially without his hook! She pushes down a bubbling respect for him. God knows she's had to pick her share of tricky locks, but handcuffs are a different story.

She wonders how long it took him to pick the giant's lock on the top of the beanstalk, and quickly the thought jumps back to a few days ago, in Rumplestitlskin's cell. _You abandoned me on that beanstalk_.

Her stomach twists again, and she crosses her arms to push the thought out of her mind, inadvertently shaking her head.

"How the hell did you even get out?"

He smirks at her over his shoulder. "Love, you are not the first maiden to leave me chained up in bed and to escape by my own devices."

She should've known. Emma crosses her arms as Hook climbs back onto the hospital bed, but rather than get in and under the covers, he sits on the edge, as Emma had only an hour earlier. He glowers at the plate of blue jello, watching it wiggle with open disdain.

"Are we quite sure this isn't still alive," he deadpans, not taking his eyes off it. Emma doesn't reply, rather walks up in front of him and pins him with a smug smile, suggesting he should figure it out for himself.

_His eyes are the same color blue._

_Whoa, okay, where did _that_ come from?_

"Eat, so I can put you back into your cuffs."

"Or," he says from underneath his lashes, "you could tie me up now and feed me, darling."

She snorts. "In your dreams. Eat."

He shrugs as if to say _worth a try_. Hook—_or would he be just Killian, without the hook on_, Emma wonders, though she'd never dare say it aloud—sets down the wobbling jello on the bed and reaches around for the fork, sitting on the tray of food on his bedside table.

Clearly unprepared for the consistency, he stabs the jello with his fork the way one would for meat. "Ah," he murmurs to himself, so quietly Emma thinks he doesn't realize he's spoken. He watches the substance wiggle with a surprisingly childlike fascination, before lifting the fork to his lips.

But the pirate's hand shakes too much, the plate is too far a journey from his mouth, and so the jello jumps from the utensil before it can reach his mouth. It lands in his lap with an inaudible plop, and both Killian and Emma stare at it for a moment. He swipes at the blue jello again, only for the fork-full to plummet to the floor.

She's about to laugh when she sees the stormy look in his eye. He's annoyed, but moreso, he's upset—and instantly she understands why. Suddenly, his mix of shame, anger, and missing hand scream out at her: it's as if he feels as though he can't even feed himself.

She's never really even thought about the lack of left hand and how it must be a hassle; she never really notices, or thinks of him as a one-handed man.

She wants to tell him that if he was sitting at a table and wasn't eating the bounciest edible substance known to man, there wouldn't be a problem. She wants to tell him not to be angry. She wants—

But Killian would crow her for her pity, so instead, she reaches down onto the tray and hands him a spoon, saying, "Here, try this. Jello is meant to be eaten with a spoon."

He flicks his gaze between her and the utensil in her hands. A wordless agreement passes through their locked eyes, his face ripples with emotion, and suddenly the sly, knowing grin is back firmly in place. The wall is up.

He plucks the spoon from her, and this time successfully maneuvers the jello into his mouth. His expression twists with surprise, and then pleasure at the sweet aftertaste. "Fascinating," he whispers.

Killian takes another bite, and then points the spoon at the tray's other untouched foods, barely swallowing as he says, "What is the white substance?"

Emma realizes she's been watching him eat with a small smile on her face, suddenly grateful his attention was on the jello and not her. She turns to look at what he's referring to, smirking when she recognizes it.

She raises an eyebrow. "Whipped cream," Emma says, and she knows what's coming next.

His grin is absolutely wicked.


	22. sirens (pt 1)

**(miss me?)**

**emma overboard! again, operation kraken will resume after i finish up this 2 (maybe 3) parter oneshot...posting this now, broken up into segments, because i haven't given you guys a oneshot in a while and this is as far as i have time to get today. **

**set 3x01**

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It starts with a ripple.

A little flicker under the water, the rise and gentle pop of a bubble as it breaks to the surface.

The captain's eyes narrow, unconsciously tightening his grip on the rope at the railing.

"Hook!"

And like that, any worry about the little ripple is quickly abandoned as he turns to face the owner of the voice. The tension in his face dissolves into a smirk as Emma glowers across the deck towards him, waving a handful of pale muslin fabric out in front of her.

She is furious, but to him she is _glowing_, her hair catching the sun and the wind, lifting and dancing along her shoulders as if carried by pixies. Emma stops in front of him, eyes ablaze, and distantly, he notes her father lurking not far behind, regarding them carefully.

David lingers at the end of the railing, where he pretends not to be listening. Emma flourishes her hand in front of him. "What the hell is this?"

Hook pauses, eying the offending object dubiously. "Mm, in our land we call that a shirt, darling," he quips, raising a challenging eyebrow.

They both take a step forward without realizing it.

"Is this your idea of a joke?"

He grins cheekily. "Oh, love, my idea of a _joke_ is far more—"

Emma silences him with a flash of her hand. "Damnit, Hook. What is this?"

His expression turns oddly serious. "As I said, it's only a shirt, lass," he snaps, stifling a sigh. "I thought it might suit you. It's hotter here in Neverland than your Storybrooke."

She swallows, suddenly uncomfortable. Emma scans his eyes, looking for the lie, but his face remains impassive. She finds herself asking the question she's afraid to know the answer to. "Then what did you mean in the note—"

_Splash!_ Emma cuts off abruptly, her neck snapping around so fast Hook hears it crack. The two of them rush to the railing, where David can be seen swimming full force towards a nearby alcove of rocks.

"Dad!" Emma bellows, but David swims on, faster, were it possible, his voice lost in the wind as he cries something that sounds an awful lot like "snow". Hook goes rigid as a slow, lulling song is carried up and over the _Jolly_'s sails.

"_Sirens_," Hook hisses as he and Emma exchange wide-eyed glances.

"Go get my mom," Emma says firmly. Before Hook can blink, she is stepping back from the side of the _Jolly_—and which he far too late realizes is a running start. A moment later, Emma Swan is leaping overboard after her father.

"No!" He screams over the railing, his hook driving into the wood so roughly it splinters underneath him. _Bloody, stupid, infuriating woman. If the sirens don't kill her, I will_.

He has no time to think, only time to act, so he quickly rushes across the deck and throws open the brig's door. "Snow White!" He yells below deck, knowing he needs the fighter Snow White, not meek Mary Margaret.

By the time the dark-haired woman clambers up the stairs, Hook is already back at the railing, weaving a sling of rope down over the edge of the ship. Looking around for her family, who she'd known to be up deck, it doesn't take long for Mary Margaret to put two and two together. She rushes to Hook's side, paling when she makes out Emma's gleaming blonde hair amongst the rough Neverland waves.

"What happened?" Mary Margaret shouts, taking the rope from Hook and helping him weave it over the edge.

"Sirens," Hook spits back, both their eyes on the water. "Emma jumped in after your husband, after they presumably lured him out." A shock of pride and fear ripples over her face before being replaced by concentration, glancing out at the sea.

"We have to do _something_!" Mary Margaret shoots him a terse, determined look, and for a moment, all Hook sees is the resemblance of Emma. His heart gives an uncomfortable pang.

"This is as close as the _Jolly_ can get to the rocks, lass," Hook yells over the wind, "the best we can do is reel them in as soon as they're within distance!" The two share a heated, pained look, knowing it stings both of them to remain on deck, to feel so helpless.

Emma reaches the rocks and her father, who lies on his knees, looking up at a woman who bears a striking resemblance to Mary Margaret from a distance. Just as the woman steps closer, Emma pulls herself up onto the rock. In one swift movement, she kicks and sweeps the legs of the woman—nay, the _siren_, who falls backwards as Emma whips a knife from her boot, pressing it against the siren's throat.

Keeping her elbow low against the siren's neck, Emma throws David a look over her shoulder. She shouts something, and Hook strains to hear it, but they're too far out. David seems dumbstruck, unwilling to budge.

Emma maneuvers herself and the siren into a standing position, the knife still withdrawn, and then promptly shoves the siren off the other side of the rock. Hook nearly laughs despite himself. The blonde grabs hold of her father's arm and tugs him back into the water, who seems to be resisting and trying to swim back towards the rock.

Mary Margaret's voice has gone hoarse from shouting, white-knuckling the ship's railing. Regina, curious, has surfaced from below deck as well, but sensing the severity, she strides over quickly, her back straight.

Emma strains with her father's weight, but the current is in her favor, and she is able to pull him back towards the ship. When she's close enough, she grabs the rope and cinches it around David's waist, waving up to signal they're ready. David thrashes, now free of Emma's grip, and tries to swim backwards, towards the rocks.

Hook and Mary Margaret struggle with the weight, burdened by the choppy waves. "Regina, please, help!" Mary Margaret cries, grunting. Hesitation and annoyance flicker clear across the queen's face before she wordlessly grabs hold of the rope, heaving alongside with her enemy.

With the third set of hands, David is quickly pulled up over the side of the ship. Mary Margaret makes quick work of the rope, throwing it back over to Hook, who has already returned to the railing. His eyes are wide and searching for Emma, but she's lost amongst the suddenly much wilder, almost angrier, waves.

"No," David murmurs groggily, trying to stand, "I have to go back, I have to find Sno—" _Slap!_

Both the queen and the pirate whip around to see Mary Margaret clock David with the open palm of her hand. "Wake up," She says firmly, but gently. Taking the opportunity from his stunned pause, she relays him a kiss. After a pause, the two melt into each other, lost in their lips.

Regina audibly groans.

"Where's Emma?" David says suddenly, jumping upright. "She…she was right behind me…"

The _thump_ of Hook's leather coat hitting the floor is the only response. He dives overboard without a word, making almost no noise as he hits the water.

He breaks for air, gasping as he swivels in the sea, desperately searching for Emma. A scream and a slip of golden hair flash in his peripherals. He turns to see her tangled with…herself? Two identical Emma Swan's scratch at each other's throat, kicking and bobbing along the choppy water.

_Bleeding pixies_, he thinks, dimly noting that if he wasn't so terrified for her life, he might be turned on.

"Help!" One of the Emma's screams just before she sinks below the water.

"Hook!" Cries the other, struggling to stay afloat. The first Emma resurfaces, and immediately lunges back into the fight.

His eyes dart between the two. Wordlessly, he makes his decision.

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**reviews always encourage a faster update! the shared drink, a mysterious note, and a rumple confrontation are coming up next. ;)**


	23. sirens (pt 2)

Mustering their last bit of strength, the two heave themselves over the railing of the _Jolly Roger_, collapsing and breathing hard. Hook chuckles deeply and Emma flashes him an exhausted, but elated, grin.

Once the siren had figured out that Hook wasn't going to fall for her mimicry trick, she had quickly changed tactics, diving at the pirate and nearly drowning him. They had been lucky to kill her before she could call her sisters. They'd been even luckier to be on the opposite end from Mermaid Lagoon.

_He'd_ been lucky to have Emma at his back.

"What was that I said before, darling?" he asks, still panting as he wipes the wet, dark hair back from his forehead. He leans in slightly, lowering his voice and giving her a private, soft smile. "I told you we make quite the team."

A strange look passes over Emma's face, unsuccessfully trying to swallow her smile. "I—"

"Emma! Oh, honey!" Mary Margaret squeals, swooping in to give her daughter a crushing hug. The two women stand, still hugging. To Hook's surprise, David offers him a hand up, which he accepts after a moment of confusion. The prince's grip lingers briefly, a moment of silent thanks passing between the two men. Hook nods, not daring to open his mouth.

"How'd you know which one was Emma?" Regina asks, looking dumbfounded and, as usual, annoyed by the familial dynamic around her.

How _did_ he know? The siren had assumed Emma's outfit, and the likeness had been completely identical. In retrospect, he _could_ say that Emma Swan would never directly cry out for help, especially not from him, and that was his reasoning. But in truth, in the moment, he'd simply had a gut instinct and hadn't questioned it. He hadn't even questioned that the "gut" feeling came from somewhere closer to his chest than his stomach.

"I just knew," Hook replies, surprised at how tight his voice comes out.

That hadn't been his first interaction with a siren, but that _was_ an unusual trick for one to pull. In the past, they'd always taken the form of Milah. He shakes his head to himself, not wanting to dwell on the thought.

David moves forward to embrace his daughter. "I owe you my life, Emma," he says, taking her by the shoulders. Emma avoids his gaze, shrugging off the gratitude and mumbling something into the ship deck.

Meanwhile, Mary Margaret is shooting Hook a hard, studying look. He meets her expression dead on, narrowing his eyes. She doesn't budge, the tilt in her neck and squint in her eye a pure mirror to Emma.

"My, my, my," interrupts the smooth, cold voice of Rumple, sweeping across the deck. Emma's eyes bulge at his changed outfit, dressed in his scaly, dark Enchanted Forest clothing, the cane and limp noticeably absent. "Isn't this touching." He flicks a disdainful glare onto Hook, his lip curling openly. "Our hero."

"Bloody more than you did, _crocodile_," Hook spits, and only Mary Margaret notices the way he instinctively shifts his stance in front of Emma, curving slightly as if preparing to draw his sword defensively.

"One wave of your hand and none of us would've had to risk our lives," Emma adds hotly. "We're in this together, Gold. You said you would help, and that was a hell of an opportunity."

"Actually," Rumple says in mock sincerity, eying the two, "I never quite said I'd do that."

"What's that supposed to mean?" David asks lowly, hands sinking to his hips.

"It means, _dearie_," Rumple replies, his voice rising and twisting, "that I owe none of you anything. Henry's best chance to be found is with me, and I can't wait around while _she_ tries to kill _her_, _you_ try to kill _him_, while he tries to…well, whatever it is he wants with your daughter."

"You coward," Hook hisses, drawing his blade.

"You can't just _leave_," Regina states in her most _this-is-unacceptable_ voice.

"You'll find I can." He shrugs, as if to say _what can you do_. He turns to Hook and flashes him his toothiest grin. "Oh, and thanks for the lift." Rumple giggles impishly, and disappears into a cloud of purple smoke.

A deathly silence befalls the group. Emma shivers, her eyes wide. "What the hell was that?"

"That," her mother replies, sighing very heavily, "was the Dark One."

"_That's_ what he was like?" Emma says disbelievingly. She turns to Hook. "No wonder you wanted to kill him."

Hook doesn't say anything, nor does he meet her gaze. Emma eyes his good hand, his knuckles drained white, the sword shaking in his grip. Finally, in a low voice, he says, "I need a drink."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Hook hears a rapping at his door. He doesn't get more than a word out, however, before Emma barges in, mid sentence.

Whatever she was saying, however, falls flat as her eyes land on his exposed chest. She freezes, one hand still lingering on the doorknob. Despite his sour mood, he can't help but grin a little at Emma's blush.

She snaps herself out of it, and clears her throat. "I knocked," she says in a tight voice.

"Yes, darling," he says, crossing the cabin towards his bureau. They both know she hadn't waited before entering, but he's not in a teasing mood. "That you did." He eyes her from over his shoulder, burrowing his smile into his chest as he takes in her outfit. "I see you're wearing the clothes I gave you," he adds, his eyes bright in the dim light. "I told you they'd suit you."

Emma does, in fact, rather like the clothing. The shirt he gave her is big in a few places, but the billowy, soft fabric is a welcome relief to her water-soaked clothes from home. He also had given her a pair of high-waisted brown leather pants that are surprisingly comfortable. Simple, effective, and not too flashy. Given how elaborately he dresses, she would've expected him to hand her Liza Minelli's take on a pirate, but he's pinned her correctly. Again.

"That's why I'm here," Emma says, slapping her palms against her thighs, as if to remind herself. She closes the door behind her. "My dad was wondering if he could borrow something as well."

"Your father asked that?" Hook shoots her a dubious, thin smile as he pulls a clean, dry shirt over his head. Somewhere, in the back of Emma's mind, she can admit that disappoints her.

Emma grins wryly. "Well, okay, my mom did."

"Ah," the pirate nods, clearly not surprised. He flashes her a smile that does not even come close to reaching his eyes. He seems distracted, possibly annoyed even, but he's humoring her.

She takes advantage of his head being buried in the back of the wardrobe, and glances openly around the rest of his cabin, her hands on her hips. This, she notes dimly, is the first time she's ever been in his quarters.

It's surprisingly clean and unsurprisingly dark. A lofty burgundy leather armchair resides behind an ornate wooden table, lined with a candelabrum and several unfolded maps. She squints at one of them, realizing it's a star chart. Huh.

Behind her is a bed that looks about as seductive as he is, decorated in deep red sheets and plush pillows. She grins, almost amused, but the longer she looks at it, the more she wants to lie down on it, where she's sure she'll never want to get up.

_Whoa, easy there, Swan_.

He gives a pleased, husky sound from deep in his throat, bringing her thoughts back to the present, and she realizes she's been caught staring hard at his bed. "See something you like, love?" He asks half-heartedly, sinking into his armchair. Again, Emma can't deny how distracted he seems, and the lax attempt at his usual humor only highlights that.

He sets down a pile of clothing—all brown, Emma is surprised to note, not expecting him to own anything that wasn't black, charcoal, or maybe ebony if he was feeling particularly flashy. He waves dismissively towards it. "See if those fit." He raises a tumbler glass to his lips, and gives it a gentle swirl before taking a large, ungraceful swig.

Emma doesn't budge. She stands rooted, watching him down the contents of his glass with what she hopes is a neutral expression.

Perhaps it's the fact that he clearly wants her to leave that makes her want to stay.

She steps forward, and all he has to do is meet her eyes to read her thoughts. Without a word, he bends down, fumbles through a desk drawer and pulls out a second glass. He pours them both a full amount, and leans back, shutting his eyes hard. He has never looked more vulnerable, even having seen him hurt at the top of the beanstalk or unconscious and bloody in the hospital.

She pulls over a spare wooden chair and arranges it across from him, watching him carefully as she sips the drink. "Whiskey," she whispers, surprised. That's _her_ drink. His eyes fly open, questioning. "I just took you as more of a…rum guy. You know, yo ho and a bottle of rum, or something."

"If I'm not done surprising you yet, darling, I'm doing something right." He says it so lowly Emma almost wonders if she's heard him wrong. But she knows she hasn't, because with Hook, he always drives along her comfort zone as if it were an 80 mph road.

A comfortable silence falls over them, each of them sipping their drinks, deep in their own thoughts.

Finally, Emma opens her mouth, and for the life of her she doesn't know _why_, maybe it's the alcohol but she's saying it before she really realizes what she's saying, "I know why you're upset."

That gets his attention. He disguises his curiosity under a face of anger, sneering behind his raised glass. "Oh really, Swan," he deadpans, swallowing the burning liquor without flinching. "_Enlighten_ me."

Emma straightens and narrows her gaze. She hadn't planned on saying anything in the first place—just get in and get out, that was the plan, what the _hell_ happened to her plan—but now he's trying to push her away, all she wants to do is push _back_.

Smiling tightly, Emma downs the rest of her drink and slams it against the desk none too gently. She then scoots her chair closer, lacing her fingers over the table.

"You're mad because you almost lost it." Silently, Hook refills their glasses, not taking his eyes off her. "You decided to give up your revenge and it's not as easy as you thought it would be." _You made a promise and you're worried you can't keep it_.

She's too afraid to say that last part. Really, _she's_ too afraid he can't keep it. She needs him. Well, she needs his services and Neverland know-how. Yeah. And his ship. That's what she needs. Yeah.

"I'm not going back on my word, Emma," he says, as if reading her mind. He leans forward across the table and sets down his glass. She flicks her eyes between his hand, hovering dangerously close to hers, and his face, solemn and still.

He holds her gaze there for a beat before settling back in his chair, sighing as it squeaks with his weight.

"I spent more time than I care to recall trying to leave this place to kill Rumplestiltskin. And here I am sailing back into its heart with him as my guest of honor," Hook says finally, his eyes on the ceiling. His voice is strained, and a part of her can't believe he's telling her this, even if she already knew it.

That she's sitting here, with Captain Hook of all people (who has no right to be looking the way he does, _bad form, Disney_), in Neverland of all places, drinking from a bottle of rum that's older than electricity, contemplating life.

She closes her eyes, and pushes the thoughts from her mind. When she opens them, he's still staring at the ceiling, his drink swirling methodically in his hand.

"Hey." When he doesn't look at her, she says it again, more firmly. "_Hey_. You heard him out there. He's got no interest in playing with others. He—he left, when we needed him. You came back. You're still here. Isn't that what matters?"

Hook stares at her sharply, and nothing in the world prepares her for what he says next. "Are we still talking about the Dark One?"

The _hell_. "You're just trying to change the subject," Emma grits out.

He fixes her with another one of his unreadable and unflinchingly intense looks. "So are you."

Emma stands abruptly, feeling flushed. The cabin suddenly feels hotter, smaller than before. "I—you—" She grabs for the pile of clothing on the desk, hugging it against her chest. "Well I've gotten what I came for, and thanks for the drink, pal, but I'm going."

The chair rolls back as he jumps up. "Fine."

"Fine."

After a heated moment, Emma turns to go. She gets as far as the door before he says, in a much softer voice: "The note." She freezes. "You asked what I meant, before."

Emma swallows. _Don't turn around. Don't you _dare_ turn around_, she tells herself, clutching the clothes tightly.

"I don't know what it is about you that makes me constantly repeat myself, but it's true, Emma, you'd make one hell of a pirate." Despite herself, Emma turns around, her eyes wide, and meets his gaze. Her heart slams against her chest so loudly she can hear it in her ears. "That's it. I didn't mean anything more by it."

She nods, curtly, and spins back towards the door. Silently, she leaves the room, her grip lingering on the doorknob to steady her balance. _He was lying_. So what _did_ he mean by it?

She pulls the curled up note from her pants pocket, and unfolds it, holding it up to the dim overhead light.

_Emma, _

_I told you before that you'd make one hell of a pirate. You act the part, perhaps you'll consider dressing it, too. _

_Killian _

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**...hi**

**so hope the dialogue/length made up for the short action chapter from before. those who guessed that hook wouldn't pick the the emma that cried for help, i'm proud of you for catching that! y'all are sharp. **

** so this is kind of a loose way i see 3x01 going-i mean, i think rumple leaves rather early on in the ep, and the shared drink could easily come after, _if_, emma goes overboard. but hook's spoiler line felt like it would've come before rumple left but whatever, i worked in anyway. **

**and sorry rumple fans, i know i wrote him as a bit of a prick, but honestly when he bounces out of the ouat avengers i don't see him doing it particularly nicely. plus he's going all dark one on us again (i'm excited, personally) so he's not gonna be warm and fuzzy for a while. not that, you know, he usually is. but. anyway.  
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**and i think it's too early for hook to be bringing up that his name is killian, but i couldn't think of any other way to end it that didn't have the impact i wanted. so...maybe that's ooc but whatever, i'm not perfect. it's funny, reading both these together, i realized i gave killian a POV chapter and then emma a POV chapter, completely inadvertently.  
**

**anyway, hope you enjoyed! now, back to operation kraken. :) **

**(wow this was a long author's note) (shutting up)  
**

******_please_ review! it means a lot!**


	24. operation kraken: phase two

"Emma, is that you?" Mary Margaret calls over her shoulder, her hands in the sink. "Did you get the eggs I—" She stops suddenly, her eyes bugging as they fall on Emma and Henry's laden hands. "Honey, when I asked you to stop at the store…"

"I wasn't sure what to get," Emma breathes quickly, depositing her two full grocery bags onto the kitchen island. Henry follows in suit, grunting loudly with the weight. She begins pulling objects out of the brown paper bag.

"I mean, one the one hand, I thought fish—he's a pirate, pirates like fish, obviously, right—and on the other I was like, well he's probably really sick of fish—so then I bought chicken, but I also wasn't sure so—"

"Emma!" Mary Margaret screams, her eyes wide, and Emma belatedly realizes that she's been calling her name the whole time.

_Pull it together_.

"What's this about Hook, now?" Her mother asks after taking a moment to compose herself, exhaling with a small smile.

"We invited him to dinner," Henry pipes up, as he withdraws from a bag what Mary Margaret thinks may be an entire pumpkin pie. He opens the refrigerator haphazardly, and from behind the door adds, "He's coming at seven!"

"I see," Mary Margaret says in a cool voice, her eyes shrewdly flicking between her daughter and grandson.

"Yeah, you know," Emma exhales shakily, "I figured we never really thanked him and he's still acclimating so…I thought…it might be nice."

Mary Margaret smiles thoughtfully. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the, ah, _fishing trip_ you two were whispering about this morning, would it?"

"If it _did_," Henry replies smoothly while shooting Emma a look that isn't smooth in the slightest, "we still couldn't tell you about it."

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**PHASE 2: CASTING THE BAIT **

At seven on the nose, a rapping sounds at the door. Emma nearly drops the handful of forks she's carrying to the table, and just as she's about to set them down and move to the door, Henry comes barreling down the stairs at full speed, almost knocking David over as he hits the ground.

"I'll get it!" He cries, rushing to the door. He swings it open, revealing Hook standing with his arms tucked behind his back.

Emma revels in the slight flush he has dancing along his cheekbones, telling her he'd either walked _very_ briskly or the pirate is actually…_blushing_.

"Hello lad," Hook says brightly as Henry gestures him inside. Blue eyes sweep around the apartment, drinking it in with great interest.

While he's preoccupied inspecting a family portrait hanging to his right, Emma takes the opportunity to observe him. She actually double takes, so taken off guard by Hook's outfit for the evening. He looks downright _sinful, _like an off-duty rockstar walked into her living room.

He's wearing his leather pants and black boots as usual, but instead of his billowy pirate's top, he dons the oatmeal-colored Henley shirt she'd given him this morning. He's buttoned it lowly so that a small tuff of dark chest hair remains well in sight, and the combination of his pirate wardrobe and a modern shirt actually makes Emma swallow palatably.

_We are both _indeed.

"Hey, nice shirt," Henry says appreciatively.

David takes a step forward, his arms folded. "Yeah," he murmurs suspiciously, "it's nice."

A wry look crosses the pirate's face, his eyes on Emma. Before Hook can cut in with what she's sure will get him inevitably socked in the jaw, she swiftly takes both men by the elbow and leads them to the table.

"We're having fish," she announces, leaving them there as she gathers three wine glasses from the cupboard.

"Oh," Hook laughs. Emma frowns, glad her back is to him. She _knew_ fish was a stupid idea. Should've gone with chicken, or steak. Of _course_ he's sick of fish; it's probably all he ever eats.

_Why are you over-thinking this? _

_I don't have to answer that._

_Sure you don't, but you're the one who brought it up._

_Oh, shove it._

"What's so funny?" Emma asks, taking a moment to shake her thoughts from her mind.

Hook turns a little, revealing a medium-sized, dark velvet satchel hanging from his belt loops. She's surprised she didn't notice it before, actually. He nimbly untangles it and lays it onto the tabletop. A moment later, he pulls out a small package wrapped in yellowed parchment that smells distinctly of the ocean.

"Well love, I also brought you a fish," he says, giving her an upturned smile. "Caught it this afternoon."

"Romantic," she deadpans.

"Anything to keep the spark alive," he banters back, his eyebrows high on his forehead. It takes her a moment to realize the connotation of their conversation—held in front of her _parents_, no less—and she flushes, swiping the fish from his hand and marching over to the fridge. "I wasn't sure of your customs, so I—what was the expression—ah, yes, covered my bases," he adds.

He turns to Mary Margaret, who has been watching the exchange with calculated eyes. "I also brought you candles for your table," he says, handing her two long, twisted black candles, elegant and gothic looking.

"They're black," Mary Margaret echoes, staring down at them.

Hook actually looks a little embarrassed, as if just realizing that himself. "Yes, well sorry darling, I used up all my pink ones just last week," he says lightly, recovering.

"No, no they're great!" She rushes to add. "I'll just…go find some candle-holders."

He turns to Emma, looking nothing short of mischievous. "Worry not love, I have something _special_ for you as well," he says lowly, fingers tapping on the tabletop. "After dinner, of course. I want you to open it…in private."

She regards him with an unimpressed look. "What, did you get me a peg-leg shaped—"

"Is it normal for pirates to bring presents to dinner?" Henry interrupts, and they both jump, wondering how the boy had snuck up so silently.

Slowly rotating away from Emma, he flashes the lad a toothy grin. "Perhaps not for a pirate, but for a gentleman it is customary. And as I've told your mother, I'm _always_ a gentleman first." He winks at Emma as she hands him a glass of red wine. She holds his gaze, her eyes narrowed, wondering what exactly he's playing at.

Honestly, she's just confused. She doesn't know what she had been expecting exactly, but she sure as hell hadn't assumed he'd show up bearing _gifts_ of all things. He's acting off, too. Not like he's lying or anything, but there is a suspicious amount of anxiety riddled behind his eyes. But _why_ is what's nagging at her. It's not like they all hadn't shared several meals together, back in Neverland. Her parents are used to Hook by now—the good and the bad.

Deep down however, she knows this is different.

It's as if he's nervous. As if he's trying to _impress_ them. As if...as if…Emma doesn't really know what bringing home a boyfriend to her parents would feel like, but if she has to pick a comparison…

David suddenly huffs loudly, possibly as if to remind everyone he's still there. Emma's glad for the gesture, as she uses it to reprieve herself of those dangerously confusing thoughts.

As Henry polishes off setting the table and Mary Margaret fusses with the oven, the others take their seats. From the head of the table, David curiously stares the pirate—who in turn, curiously stares at the knife clenched unknowingly by the prince's hand.

Emma's eyes flick between both silently.

"Ta da!" Her mother cries, interrupting the thoughts of the three as she places a steaming tray onto the table. "Pan-roasted salmon with white beans!"

"_Salmon_?" Hook repeats incredulously, his face lighting up with boyish desire. "I haven't had salmon in nay 300 years! A rare treasure indeed. It's one of my favorites, even."

"Hey, it's my favorite too," Henry says proudly as his grandmother hands him a serving. Hook grins appraisingly.

"I think I will never get used to your land's, ah, accessibility to delicacy," he announces, staring down at his own plate greedily. "The day before last I saw peaches for sale. Peaches! I used to have to cross entire _oceans_ to find the bloody stones. Of course they were Milah's favorite, she'd always—"

Hook cuts off abruptly, his form going still as his head dips down. All eyes are on him. Emma swallows. Only she knows the name, but the others can glimpse the meaning.

Hook's silence lasts only a moment. He inhales deeply and snaps upright, a docile smile on his features. "She'd always demand we go in search of them annually. Nearly cost me a few men each time," he finishes, in a careful tone that fools no one.

Emma exchanges glances with her mother, but before either can say anything, it is surprisingly David who speaks up, shattering the tension.

"You're telling me," he says, leaning forward on his elbow with an easy grin. "When Snow was pregnant with Emma, she had horrible cravings for chocolate covered strawberries. But—"

"Chocolate was about as rare as it got," Mary Margaret finishes, looking wistful. "I remember. I must've sent out over half a dozen palace guards in search of it. God, and now I can just walk two blocks!"

Her family exchanges comfortable laughter, but Emma watches Hook, who is grinning broadly, at ease—to the untrained eye, at least. She sees the cool control in the quirk of his lips, the measured confidence. Her thoughts are confirmed as his eyes dart to hers, finding relief flooded in the pools of blue.

Hook's expression sharpens under her gaze, allowing her to glimpse any vulnerability for only a moment shedding any trace of it. He blinks away.

He takes a bite of his dinner, and this time, when he smiles, Emma knows it's genuine. "It's delicious, Mary Margaret," he says to the dark-haired woman, who beams.

Emma, however, frowns. "Why do you assume she made it?"

Hook throws her a smug grin before turning to David. "You're right, lass. Highness, that was terribly presumptuous of me."

"That's not what I meant," Emma snaps, ostensibly offended.

"Darling, you lived on my ship for long enough to gauge your culinary skills," Hook replies without missing a beat.

"Big words from a guy who's probably had three lifetimes worth of scurvy," Emma jabs back.

He laughs openly at that, the sound low and deep. Despite his (often) juvenile sense of humor, he has a very guttural, masculine laugh. Emma clears her throat, finding a smile on her lips. "Anyway, you think this is good—next time we'll take you for bagels and lox. That's salmon done right."

"Next time?" Hook says from under his eyelashes, his voice quiet and looking suddenly very young.

"Uh," Emma says, trying to keep her tone neutral as all eyes rotate to her, "yeah."

They eat in silence for a few minutes after that, then making casual conversation about the sailing conditions in Storybrooke bay or the updates at the station. The banality of it all is enough to make Emma's head spin—months spent clawing their way through jungles, dueling Lost Boys, stabbing shadows, fighting off mermaids—and here sits her father and her pirate chit-chatting about the weather.

_Did you just refer to him as your pirate?_

Before she can ask herself any more questions, Henry announces its time for desert. "Pumpkin, because it's my mom's favorite," he adds, clearing the finished plates.

Hook glances at the blonde across from him. "Pumpkin?" He mouths, looking perennially amused as usual. His response is a kick to the shin from under the table, which only makes him grin wider.

After everyone has been served, Emma locks eyes with her son, who suddenly nods and flashes her a grin Hook would be jealous of. Without a word he turns to the pirate, regarding him with a thoughtful look, his chin propped up in his palm.

Slowly, Hook swallows, sensing the boy's brown eyes on him. "Yes, lad?" He asks, glancing at Emma again.

Henry is silent for a moment, and Emma can see the calculations being done in his head. _Uh oh_. "You know," Henry starts, his voice clear and confident, "my gramps' name is David."

This time, all the eyes shift to David, who freezes mid-bite, the pumpkin pie halfway to his lips. Hook's eyebrow rises halfway to his hairline, but Henry goes on, "Yeah. It's a good name. David."

"Is there something I need to know?" David murmurs, but Henry's attention is still wholly on Hook.

"Sometimes I call him Gramps. Sometimes I call him David. But sometimes I even call him _Davey_. Do…you like the name Davey, Mr. Jones?"

At that, Mary Margaret begins to sputter and choke on her slice of pie. Her husband rushes to hand her a glass of water, his hand going to make soothing circles on her back. While others turn to her mother, Emma pins her gaze on Hook, whose face is fixed in a darkly unreadable expression. He meets her eyes and raises a cool, challenging eyebrow.

By the time Mary Margaret stops coughing, Hook is already standing, moving to clear the emptied plates. He deposits them near the sink and taps his hand to his thigh, eyes off and unfocused.

"As lovely as the evening has been, I think perhaps it's time for me to take my leave," he says lightly, but with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

There is a pause. Disappointment flutters over Henry's face, but both he and Emma know he may have pushed too far. Hook kicks off from the cupboard. "Emma, a word?" He asks, crossing the kitchen and gesturing for her to follow.

Emma narrows her eyes at her son before pushing her chair back and following the pirate to the door. She sighs heavily. "Look, I—" She stops suddenly, and looks down to her hand, where Hook has thrust a small wooden box. Her mind races, immediately latching onto the most extreme option despite her better judgment. "You're not going to get down on one knee, are you?" She says jokingly, expecting him to smirk.

But Hook just blinks and closes his hand over hers. "Open it later. I'll see you tomorrow, pumpkin."

To perhaps both their surprise, Emma doesn't pull her hand away nor does she question the new nickname. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes, didn't you say we were going to obtain a locked…what was it, bagel? I don't know what it is about your preoccupation with locks, love, but—"

"Lox. L-o-x," Emma replies distractedly. "And hey, I never said—"

"See you tomorrow, Henry!" Hook interrupts, yelling over Emma's shoulder. He grins, and turns back to Emma, his voice low once more. "I sense the lad has something he'd like to ask me, darling, and as it is, instinct tells me that's not a boy to leave festering with a thought."

Emma can't deny he's right. Knowing her son to be much like her in that regard, Henry's dedication can only evolve into obsession at this point. And maybe they should just get the whole "operation kraken" thing over with, even if that idea sets off a pang in her chest.

"Alright," Emma agrees after a moment of inward consultation. "Granny's, ten o'clock. Henry doesn't have school tomorrow, so I guess that works."

"Lovely, pumpkin," Hook replies, his eyes bright.

She groans at the pet name as she opens the front door for him. "That's here to stay, isn't it?"

He steps into the hallway and pauses to throw her one last heated look, something behind his eyes, gleaming in the low light. "Among other things."

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**So that took forever to get out, sorry about that! I think some of the most challenging writing comes from describing a scene where almost nothing happens, you know what I mean? But I also find dialogue much more rewarding to pen than a fight/action scene.**

**Anyway- yes, this is shamelessly fluffy. Since most of my writing always focuses on trying to work within the canon, it's fun for me to be able to break away and do something that is so very, er, fanon. **

**But it's also very stressful, because I keep convincing myself it's OOC, when in fact the scene which i placed the characters in is what's actually OOC. I think/hope. If that make sense. Anyway, one more chapter and that should wrap up Operation Kraken. It definitely won't be as long as this chap. **

**_Please review_! It makes my day and encourages me to write more and faster. :)**

**_Next up:_ **

**Phase 3: Reeling In the Catch **


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